Shattered Souls
by Nico Morrison
Summary: A retelling of the classic Phantom of the Opera story with some twists, turns, and sexiness, using all of the mediums of Phantom. Written to entertain all the possibilities of EC
1. Fleeting Youth

**_Hello all!_**

**_I'm not really sure where this is going yet...I mean, I have some ideas, but basically this is going to be another phanfic out of the same vein of EC goodness..._**

**_For now, let's just call is a retelling, with some twists and changes. _**

**_Enjoy!_**

**_Nico_**

* * *

****

Christine couldn't see anything in front of her except for Meg's long blond locks, which had come free from the confines of a tight dancer's bun as the best friends raced up to the roof of the Opera Populaire, giggling despite the curses that were being flung at them by Joseph Buquet.

Together, they burst through the heavy door that separated them from the rant of Joseph. They leaned against the door, laughing and struggling to catch their breath.

"Meg, that was truly horrible," Christine admonished, still laughing.

"Oh poo," Meg replied, waving a hand at Christine. "It's his own fault! He shouldn't have left all those bottles where people can get to them!"

Christine had to agree with that. Meg had been planning on dumping out all of the alcohol Joseph Buquet had hidden haphazardly in his small lighting booth for some time now.

Unfortunately, Joseph had caught her in the middle of her crime, threatening to whip her senseless in his blind rage.

Meg had simply laughed, grabbing Christine's hand and heading to their favorite quiet spot, the roof.

"Your mother is going to murder you," Christine informed her friend, watching as she twirled in precise circles en pointe, her arms stretched as if she intended to embrace the sky.

"She'll get over it," Meg retorted. Christine smiled. It was true. Madame Giry, while firm and intimidating, was no match for the sweet charms of her only child.

The weather was beginning to turn chilly; Christine was painfully aware of the fact that Summer was now officially over and Autumn had come to take its place.

She sat unceremoniously on the base of one of the enormous statues that adorned the roof and began to untie her painfully tight ballet slippers, which had been on her feet for the past 12 hours or so of rehearsals.

"I don't know how you are possibly still dancing," Christine remarked as she watched Meg perform several perfect pirouettes. "My toes are nearly bloody with over-exertion."

"Mine are so calloused I don't even notice," Meg replied. "I've been doing this longer than you," she added with a wink.

Christine couldn't help the slight twinge of jealously that crept up her spine. Meg was, without question, the most gifted dancer in the ballet corps at the Opera Populaire. Whether her talent stemmed from long hours and immediate training with her mother or whether is was simply in her blood, Christine could not be certain, but the undeniable truth of the matter was that Meg would continually outshine anyone who dared to dance in her vicinity, even her very best friend.

Dancing had not been Christine's goal in life. For a time, she was convinced that she would become a composer, as her father was, stunning the world with arias that would make angels weep. Unfortunately, her father had died before he could pass along sufficient information along to his only child, resulting in Christine's basic understanding of the composition process, including her ability to read music, but stopping short of rendering her capable to create.

She had been taking lessons with Madame Giry for just a few months before Charles Daae passed, but the older woman immediately placed herself in the role of Christine's guardian, realizing what a sweet and vulnerable child she was, and all alone in the world.

Dancing alongside of little Meg Giry, who quickly became Christine's dearest friend, was the salve that ultimately protected the wounds Christine bore as the result of her father's death.

She knew it was only a matter of time before the wounds opened up, revealing the unhealed gore that was, in actuality, her shattered soul.

* * *

Erik watched as the little Giry girl twirled around like a twit. Of course, he wasn't here to watch Meg. It was Christine who was now drawing him dangerously into the light, forcing him up from the bowels of the Opera House more and more frequently.

His obsessive need to rest his eyes upon her was starting to become too frightening to ignore.

And although he was filled with self-loathing for his creeping, lurking ways, he continued to stalk her, watching her from shadows, longing to become more than just a voice in the darkness.

At first, he was satisfied with merely watching the young woman. She had been nothing more than just another ballet rat when she arrived more than a decade ago, with nothing notably special about her. But as she grew, Erik became more and more interested in everything about her. He found himself scheduling his day around hers, just so he could catch a glimpse of her in the halls as she scurried from her dressing room to the stage, and back again.

But soon, watching no longer satisfied him. He knew that on the eve of her 18th birthday, she would be granted a room of her own, an honor that the silly little ballet rats held in the utmost of importance.

Erik supposed, to them, their own living quarters, no matter how small or dank, signified something far more to the girls…independence…adulthood…_freedom._

The very same night Christine had settled into her new room, Erik waited behind an astonishingly lavish two-way mirror, something he himself had set up in the room two days earlier, having heard that the small room was to become Christine Daae's personal living quarters.

He watched as the last of her friends filtered out slowly, hugging her and wishing her a happy birthday. That damned Meg took the longest, obviously jealous that her friend had turned 18 before she had.

_"Oh, Christine…you're so lucky to not have to sleep in the ballet quarters anymore!" Meg said, lovingly running her hand over a new comforter that one of the seamstresses had made for Christine._

"_You'll be 18 in just three months!" Christine replied, laughing. _

_The sound struck down Erik's spine like a xylophone. _

"_Three whole months!" Meg protested dramatically. Then the child looked thoughtful. "Perhaps Mama would let me spend a night or two with you!"_

_Christine laughed. She had no doubt that Madame Giry would grant such a request. _

"_Of course, I would have to plan to stay a night when you didn't have a gentleman caller," Meg said suddenly, raising her eyebrow suggestively. _

_Christine swatted at her friend. "Meg! What a perfectly scandalous thing to say! You know perfectly well that men are not allowed in our quarters…at any time…under any circumstance!"_

_Meg giggled. "That doesn't stop Mary," she said. _

"_Mary is…" Christine struggled to find an appropriate adjective for the promiscuous Mary, who was never without a story about her torrid love affairs…stories that were almost certainly untrue but always entertaining. "Mary is different," Christine finished tactfully. _

"_Mary is a whore," Meg replied. _

"_Meg!" Christine said, her lips in a perfect "o" of shock. _

"_It's true!" Meg protested. _

_Although he was unseen, Erik smirked in agreement. "Whore" was the perfect word to describe Mary Dupont. _

_Eventually, the interfering Meg departed. Erik watched, feeling like a dirty old man, as Christine flitted about the room, preparing herself for bed. Although she was still steeped in her modest traditions of changing into her nightclothes in such a manner that prevented her from ever being completely nude, Erik averted his eyes until he heard her ease into the old, creaking bed._

_For several minutes, Erik remained perfectly still, watching Christine in the dark. Her eyes darted nervously around the room. A single candle remained burning on her nightstand. _

_It was obvious that she was frightened to spend the night alone. _

_Without thinking, Erik began to sing, a soft, melodious tune. With his years of practiced ventriloquism, he was able to make it seems as if he was singing right beside her…almost as if he was laying stretched out next to her. _

_At first, Christine reacted with confusion. Several times she sat up, looking around as if someone had entered her room. _

_Eventually, she eased back onto her pillows, content to just listen to the soft music. _

_Erik's heart melted as he watched her eyes slide closed…_

_A single word escaped her lips…_

"_Daddy…"_

Erik was drawn from his memories as he watched as Meg and Christine slowly left the roof, their giggling voices cut off abruptly by the slam of the rooftop door.

Many subsequent nights had been spent by Erik in quiet appreciation of the beauty that was Christine Daae.

But tonight would be different.

Tonight he would finally reveal himself.


	2. Breaking Down Barriers

**_Here we go! Hope you guys like it so far! There's an excerpt from Kay's version in this chapter. I paraphrazed it. NO OWN! NO SUE! _**

**_Nico_**

* * *

Christine's eyelids began to slide down, obscuring her view of the book she held in her hands as she lay in bed.

Each time sleep threatened to overcome her, she shifted her position, forcing her tired body to remain awake.

She would never admit it, but she was actually looking forward to the haunting voice that had been visiting her for the last year or so.

The voice never seemed to visit until she was nearly asleep, too exhausted to investigate its origins.

Tonight, Christine was determined to see just who…or what…had been lulling her gently to sleep, watching over her and seemingly protecting her from horrors she could not…or would not…identify.

The ancient pocket watch Christine kept next to her bed read exactly midnight. It had been some time since she had stayed up this late. Usually her muscles were too tired from dancing all day to be preoccupied with staying up late…

But tomorrow morning, rehearsals had been cancelled. It seemed Madame Giry was suffering from a slight case of the flu and had decided that it was best for her, and her esteemed group of ballerinas, to catch up on some much needed sleep.

So Christine decided she would do whatever it took to remain awake, knowing that she would be able to sleep well past the normal 5am wake-up call in the morning.

Realizing that staying in bed was not helping her cause, Christine quickly flipped her comforter from her body, revealing a thin, white nightshift. Stockings hugged her legs, fighting off the chill in the air.

She padded around her small room, rubbing warmth back into her arms.

She stopped as she stood before the mirror.

She could swear she heard the sound of a quick intake of breath…

Erik backed up slightly from the mirror with a gasp as Christine came to stand before it. Never before had he had such an unobstructed view of her perfect, porcelain face…her young, firm body…her impossibly thick, golden brown hair. He had always remained just far enough away to prevent gazing upon his ideology of perfection…but now, there was nothing to do but stare.

She seemed to be looking right into his eyes, although Erik was certain she could not see him. Her brow was furrowed, as if the mirror held the key to some terrible mystery.

When she reached out to allow her fingertips to graze the smooth glass before her, Erik mimicked the action, letting his own fingers follow the motion of hers.

Pain ebbed into his soul. It seemed that he would always be separated from the rest of the world by a thin barrier he could not shatter, no matter how hard he tried.

Memories of his fifth birthday began to flood into his mind…memories of his first attempt to break down the glass that separated him from his mother.

_"Will you get me a present, Mother?" He asked upon learning of the first birthday celebration he was ever to have._

_His mother had looked down at him as if the question surprised her. "Of course," she replied mechanically. "What do you want?"_

_Erik had considered the question. "Can I have anything I want?"_

"_Within reason," his mother replied. _

"_Can I have two? One for now and one for later?"_

"_Oh out with it Erik! I'm tired of your silly games!" His mother suddenly exploded, as was her nature. _

_Erik hunched his shoulders, his voice coming weakly as he voiced his request. "I want two kisses," he told her. "One for now, and one to save for later."_

It still pained him to remember the fury with which his mother had responded to his childlike request…to his simple need to feel loved…from the one person who was supposed to love him unconditionally.

His hand fell away from Christine's.

At the same time, she spoke.

"Who _are_ you?" She wondered aloud.

Erik held back his breath, too intrigued by her question…by the thoughts swirling in her head...to retreat back into the darkness.

"How is it possible," Christine continued. "How is it possible to love just a voice…to be in love with just a voice?"

Erik was taken aback. Love? She spoke of love?

But surely…

Surely no one could love him…

Christine sighed, returning once more to her bed.

Erik watched for what seemed to be hours.

He was sure she was asleep until she spoke again…

"Goodnight, my angel of music," she sighed, effectively breaking his heart.

Without a moment's hesitation, Erik lifted the small, silver lever that allowed the mirror to swing open, eliminating one more barrier.


	3. Domino

**_Prolly my last update of the day!_**

**_Not to be a review whore, but they really do keep me going! I'm so happy to see some of my favorite readers back!_**

**_Enjoy!_**

**_Nico_**

* * *

Christine had the overwhelming feeling that someone was watching her.

_The Voice. It was here._

She kept her eyes tightly shut, fearing that if she opened them, revealing that she was awake, the voice would leave her once more.

Erik stared into Christine's room, his feet still planted firmly on the dank stones that basically epitomized the bowls of the Opera Populaire. How different their worlds were! Erik could not help but notice the stark difference in the passageway he stood in and the beautifully polished wood floors of Christine's living quarters.

Although he wanted to flee back into the security of his lair, Erik's feet disobeyed, soundlessly carrying him to the edge of Christine's bed.

Her breath was coming evenly, her eyes shut in dream.

It seemed she was asleep.

For a long moment, Erik allowed himself to simply drink her in with his eyes. Several times he had to stop himself from reaching out to brush an errant hair from her face. Almost unconsciously, he had begun to hum, all the while watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.

He was almost certain he heard her sigh in satisfaction.

Perhaps if he just allowed his fingers to trace her warm skin lightly…an almost non-existent touch…a touch that would have to last him for an eternity.

Erik watched in horror as his hand moved as if with a will of its own. He watched as it came down onto her face.

He watched as Christine turned to face him, her eyes opening and widening in an unmistakable impression of fear.

But instead of the scream Erik was certain was about to be released from the darkest regions of Christine's soul, there was silence, and the stare of the most beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen.

"Who are you?" She asked, her voice tight with fright, but warm with expectation.

Erik did not answer, afraid that his voice would shatter the complacency of Christine's reaction to him.

She sat up slowly, causing Erik to retreat slowly.

"No, don't go!" Christine said, suddenly emerging from her bed. Then, remembering her modesty, grabbed her long, red silk robe from the end of her bed, wrapping her slight frame as quickly as she possibly could.

She moved towards him, her eyes scanning his entire body, then finally coming to rest on the large white mask that almost entirely covered his face.

Her eyes were wide, liquid pools of curiosity. He watched as her hand came up…his breath caught in his throat in anticipation…and suddenly, she pinched him.

Erik jerked back in pain and surprise.

Christine gasped, equally surprised.

"You're real!" She exclaimed.

"Of course I'm real," Erik replied.

Christine's knees locked as the liquid velvet of his voice spread across her like a tongue.

And suddenly, the scream that Erik thought would never come, came.

* * *

Erik hadn't wanted to use the ether that he carried in a small vile within the pockets of his vest. But Christine had left him no choice!

He looked down at the limp body he held in his arms, wishing that she hadn't screamed.

He had moved with lightning speed, effectively silencing her after only a split second of the horrendous, piercing sound of horror that had emanated from Christine's throat. Erik assumed that no one had heard the brief sound…

So why did he decide to take her back to his lair?

Now he was not only a monster, but a kidnapper?

Christine stirred in her sleep, her chest brushing against Erik's long thin fingers as he held her.

Suddenly, he was very much aware that it was not a child he held in his arms, but a fully grown woman.

A woman he had been seducing using only his voice for the past year.

The sensation of Christine's warm body against his own was almost too much to bear. He was almost thankful when they reached the small, velvet lined boat that would carry them the remainder of the distance to his home. Slowly…more slowly than was necessary, Erik lay Christine's slight form in the bottom of the boat, covering her with a perfectly stitched velvet coverlet.

As he rowed back to the lair, Erik had the terrible feeling that he had just toppled the first Domino in a long chain of possibly horrific events.


	4. The Face of Hell

**_Keep in mind that this is a retelling, but that I'll be changing things as I go. Don't get upset when an incident doesn't happen just as it did in the book/movie/play. _**

**_Enjoy!_**

**_Nico_**

* * *

Erik was beginning to feel the familiar tightening on muscles in his back that indicated he had been sitting at his piano for too long.

Still he played, his thin fingers sweeping and caressing the black and ivory keys of the magnificent piano that was without a doubt the centerpiece of his lair.

Frequently, Erik would play for hours…days even. He would play until his wrists throbbed and the skin that covered his fingertips was raw and bleeding. Still he would play, as if the beautiful melodies harbored some great punishment that Erik inflicted on himself.

Night had drifted into day and back into night again. Christine still slept, her frail body wrapped in the blacks and silks of his pewter swan-bed. Erik continued to play, afraid that if he stopped she would awaken and flee, too frightened to remain nearby.

For a moment, Erik began to fear that he had miscalculated the dosage of ether he had administered to quell her scream, but when he saw her body shift behind the black lace curtain he had pulled around her, he knew he had not done any permanent damage.

Still he played, his heart beating wildly against his chest as he watched Christine's legs shift again.

She would be awake soon.

* * *

She was dreaming. Her body refused to cooperate with her mind, preferring instead to remain drugged against the rise and fall of the spectacular music that was surrounding her head.

Slowly, she rose from the bed, her white lace nightshift falling around her thin frame, her brown locks furiously curling around her face and shoulders.

She moved as if knee-deep in water, her steps silent and purposeful.

Erik watched from the corner of his eye as Christine's pale hand gracefully pulled the lace veil from before her.

She stepped into the dimly lit cavern, looking like Persephone returning to a barren earth for the arrival of Spring.

Still he played, furiously concentrating on the rhythm of his hands, rather than the quickening of his breath.

Suddenly, she spied him, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted, her brow furrowed in intense thought.

"I remember there was mist," she said to herself, as if trying to figure out a riddle. "Swirling mist…upon a vast, glassy lake…"

She crossed the small precipice that separated Erik's bed from the rest of the lair. For a moment, his view of her was obscured by the dozen or so candles burning in candelabras in front of her.

She paused to gaze into the flame of one of the candles, allowing her fingertips to painlessly caress the heat.

"There were candles all around…and on the lake there was a boat…"

Erik listened as her memories came back to her, his heart on edge as he waited for the fear that would surely take over her mystical, wondering tone at any moment.

"And in the boat…there was a man," she finished quietly, locking eyes with him.

Still he played, but allowed his gaze to meet hers briefly before looking back to the slow flutter of his fingers.

Christine moved silently behind him.

Erik was sure he could feel her breath on the back of his neck.

Hazily, she let her hands come to rest on his shoulders, moving in an exploratory manner, more bold and brazen than she would have been had she known that this wasn't a dream.

"Whose is the face in the mask?" She whispered.

And before he could grasp her wrists and stop it, she pulled off his mask, all at once revealing his deformity, the one thing that kept him from the light.

He reacted quickly and instinctively, simultaneously shoving her harshly to the stone ground and ripping the mask from her limp clasp.

Christine all at once realized that this wasn't a dream. She scooted back on her rear, her eyes and mouth wide with the horror that was Erik's face.

"My God," she stammered. "My God…_what happened_?"

Erik rounded on her, the mask now in place, the eyes behind it blazing with fury and embarrassment.

"What happened?" He repeated, his voice sounding ethereal. "_What happened?_ Isn't it obvious, Mademoiselle? You just got a glimpse into the very face of hell! Tell me…is it more hideous and terrible than you could have ever imagined?"

Christine gasped and shrank back into herself, unprepared for the rage and fury that had taken control of the sweet, melodic voice that had always made her feel so safe…

His breath was coming rapidly, his hands clenched into fists, his hair wild around his face from the brief struggle with Christine.

And suddenly, the sight of him made Christine very angry.

"You _deceived _me!" She accused, her eyes narrowed. He turned his back on her, shuffling the papers that were scattered about his piano.

She rose to her feet. "I thought you were an angel! An angel sent to protect me!"

"I never proclaimed to be such things!" Erik roared, flinging papers to the ground in rage.

Christine flinched with the sharp movement of his arm, realizing he was right…

"But your voice…that voice! That voice that sang to me words of love…" she stammered.

Erik assumed she was wholly hurt because the vision she had created in her head didn't exactly match the man standing before her.

Erik stiffened at the mention of the word "love." Indeed, he had sung countless arias, dramatic stories of true love over coming all obstacles.

He hadn't realized she would remember them with such reverence.

"They are just words," he said bitterly.

Christine took a step back, now blatantly hurt. "Just words?" She repeated. "_Just words?_"

Erik instantly regretted his statement.

"Those words meant more to me than you will ever deserve to know!" She spat venomously.

She could bare the sight of him no more.

"Take me back," she demanded, her arms folded across her chest. And then, looking at him with pointed intent she added, "Or I shall scream so loud, no amount of ether will silence me."


	5. The Scandalous Miss Daae

_Yes, Christine would not have seen the lake, etc until she woke up. So why did I have her saying all that crap? Well, because I fucked up. Sometimes I get too caught up with the story to pay attention to consistency. My apologies. _

_Ha. Oh well. I think it worked anyway. Let's just pretend she had seen the scenery in her dreams._

_In this chapter, we're also going to pretend that ether has a smell. In actuality, I don't think it does. _

_ Anywhoozle, enjoy!_

_Nico _

_

* * *

_

Christine had managed to avoid her escort's eyes all the way back to her room, where he deposited her and then left just as quickly.

No, she had not made eye contact at all.

So why was she now sobbing on her bed, wishing that she could gaze into them once more?

Christine was a naïve, having never known the intimacies that transpired between a man and woman, but she was fully aware of the dangerous emotions and sensations now racking her body, making her feel physically ill.

Her mind was flooded with images of her abductor…the sleek muscles of his body moving gracefully as he had rowed across the icy lake…his long fingertips gently depressing the piano's keys…

And finally the horrific image of his face, a sight Christine feared she would never be able to erase.

She had only seen it for a second, but the gnarled flesh that covered nearly an entire side of his face blared in her memory, provoking questions she was unable to answer on her own.

He had said she was looking into the face of hell…

But how could such beauty in the form of an angelic voice reside in the body of the devil himself?

She flopped on her back, wiping her eyes angrily with the back of her hands. Her senses were now alert, thanks to the deep sleep she had woken from.

A deep sleep brought on by a poison that had been administered to her by that _man…_

She had recognized the smell of ether almost as soon as she had snapped out of her dreamlike state…remembering how her father used the powerful sedative to sleep through the pain in his final days of illness.

Now she realized that her captor was not only mysterious…but dangerous.

Yet he had brought her back immediately upon demand…and had not harmed her in any way, save the fright his mere presence instilled in her.

Christine did not easily sort through such contradictions.

Suddenly, her door flung open, Meg Giry standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips and her face twisted into an expression of worry and anger.

"Where have you _been?_" She asked, her voice slightly shrill.

Christine sat up in bed, trying to feign confusion. "What are you talking about? We had the day off…"

"And since when do you spend your days off without _me?_" Meg countered, sounding hurt.

Christine felt immediately ashamed, as if she was harboring a great secret from her dearest friend.

Then she realized she was.

"I'm sorry, Meg," Christine said helplessly. "I had some…things to attend to…"

"What things?" Meg persisted.

Christine looked at her friend with dark eyes.

What would the harm be in telling her?

"Meg, I've met someone," she said softly.

This caught the other girl's attention. "Who?" She asked, completely intrigued.

Christine suddenly wished she had remained silent. She looked around the room, her hands coming to flitter about her neck.

"A man," she replied vaguely.

Meg's eyes went wide. "Christine Daae!" She exclaimed. "Are you telling me that you've been with a man all day and all _night?_"

Christine bit her lip, avoiding eye contact with Meg. "No…well…not exactly…well…"

Meg sat on the end of Christine's bed, looking positively scandalous.

"Who would have thought that 'Pristine Christine' would take a lover before me!" She mused.

"Meg!" Christine said, horrified by the notion. "It's not like that…it's…it's…"

Meg watched her friend struggle, a smile spreading her face wide.

Christine slapped her arms down at her thighs, completely at loss for words. Meg smiled even wider, coming to hug her friend.

"I'm happy for you," she said into Christine's ear. Then, backing away but keeping her hands on her friend's shoulders, added, "And don't worry, I won't tell mother."

Christine smiled weakly. "Thank you," she said softly.

Meg nodded. "You'd best get some rest," she informed her friend. "You look like you've just been to hell and back."

As Meg left through the oak doors, Christine could not help but wonder if Meg knew just how accurate her last statement was.

* * *

Erik smashed the last candelabra that remained standing in his lair to the ground.

He hadn't been this furious with himself in quite some time.

The relationship he had been carefully building with Christine for the past year had been effectively ruined in just a few short hours.

The realization enraged him once more, causing him to roar and shatter the piano bench that had once been one of his most prized possessions.

He sat at the edge of the lake, exhausted from having raged for the last half hour or so. He rested his hands on either side of his head, willing the tight ball of anxiousness to ebb from his insides.

Why had he brought her back? Why had he brought her down here to begin with? Surely she would now reveal the presence of the rumored 'Opera Ghost,' forcing him to seek refuge in some other dank hole in Paris. He had ruined the complacency of his life…

although lately, his life had been anything but complacent.

He sighed, rising to his feet, swooping to pick up the papers he had thrown aside during his confrontation with Christine. Anger threatened to overwhelm him once more as he realized the manuscripts were ruined; the ink having smeared across the pages from the wetness of the floor.

Instead, he sighed, allowing the papers to flutter silently back down to the floor. Perhaps it was best that the melodies he had written while in her presence had been obliterated.

It would be one less thing reminding him of her.

He dragged an older, less impressive piano bench to the piano and sat, mindlessly plunking out a somber tune that would break the hearts of all who heard.

He could still feel her presence…still hear her bell-like voice lilting against the walls. He could smell her in the air…he dared not go to his bed, for fear that the scent of Christine had affixed itself to the silks and satins of the bedclothes. He imagined cascading into a reckless sleep, with only thoughts of _her_ to abandon himself to.

Erik was unable to quell the very primal hunger that hardened him. He rose, embarrassed that his body was so weak that it would react with such sexual force…he had always considered himself above such things. At a very early age it was impressed upon him that no woman would ever love him, let alone give him her body willingly. He had been content to eradicate that portion of his life, counting it as just another thing that made him…different.

But now, as his blood raced and his heart pounded at the thought of her flushed cheeks…her supple body…

he could no longer contain himself.

For the first time in a very long time, Erik felt the need to escape the confines of the Opera House, if only for a few hours.


	6. Confrontation on the Paris Streets

_Last update of the day..._

_Hey..LeOpera...Where's my cookie, kiss, and swoosh?_

_Erik's Angel...thanks for always being there with your supportive words. You're too kind.  
_

_I thought we needed to speed things up here. This chapter is going to differ a lot from the movie/play/books...but we'll get back on track again._

_Enjoy!_

_Nico _

_

* * *

_

As a child he had roamed these streets. It was how he had originally discovered the Opera Populaire. He could still remember the first time he had crept into the gilded theater, remaining motionless in the catwalk as he took in his very first orchestral rehearsal.

And although he was already six, he remembered feeling, for the first time, what love must be like.

Paris was a lonely city at night. All of the blues and pinks of daytime were replaced with the blacks and grays of the moon, which shone down upon Erik as he meandered around the empty streets, humming something he had not yet composed.

It had been quite some time since he had left the safety of the Opera Populaire. When he had first decided to call the dark belly of the theater he loved home he had frequently stalked the streets at night, enjoying the fresh air as it filled his lungs.

But as time passed and he remained alone, he saw less and less need to see the world, preferring instead to remain hidden within the comforting folds of his compositions.

Of course, he was forced to surface from time to time…he was in endless need of manuscript papers…ink…and piano strings, not to mention other necessities Erik seemed to be able to live without like food and water.

Most of the time, Erik was able to sneak into the manager's offices, tweaking the order forms and business legers to include an extra hundred pieces of composition paper or the ink he needed…but sometimes, he was forced to rely on the only other person alive besides Christine who knew of his ghostly existence.

Madame Giry had been a mere child of 17 when she discovered Erik cowering in the shadows of the Opera Populaire's kitchen. He was 7 then, dirty and cold from having been running for God knows how long.

Almost immediately she had reacted to him with kindness, although they never really spoke. It was she who first led him into the depths of the Opera, wordlessly suggesting a church-like sanctuary for him, the pitiful creature he was.

They communicated through letters…short lists from Erik, detailing what he needed, the appropriate amount of money tucked neatly inside of a creamy white envelope. She would, in turn, write back, detailing where each item was procured for, how much she spent, and when she would be able to run another errand for the mysterious masked boy who rapidly became a man.

Erik would be eternally grateful to the secretive woman.

He sighed, resigned to return to the Opera when the faint sound of crying suddenly distracted him from his thoughts.

Erik followed the sound with his entire body, honing in on a slight figure sitting across the street on a bench with its back to him, its shoulders shaking with silent, heaving sobs.

His heart slammed against his chest as his entire presence became very much aware of exactly who the figure was.

Christine… 

He knew he should turn away…he knew that she was at her most vulnerable when she wept…

and also at her most beautiful.

He knew because he had followed her many times into the great catacombs of the largest cemetery in Paris where her father was kept in eternal sleep. He had watched as she climbed the stairs to the mausoleum, clutching the lilies she always brought to rest against the door of his tomb.

He had watched as she would inevitably break down, sometimes bashing her fists against the tightly sealed crypt's doors.

He would watch and ache to hold her in his arms.

And this time was no different.

Suddenly, a horrible thought crossed his mind…

And before the rational, calculating Erik could intervene, the illogical, lust driven Erik had already begun crossing the cobble-stoned street silently.

Christine suddenly sensed a presence.

She jumped to her feet, spinning around.

She was face to masked face…

with _him_.

Christine opened her mouth to scream, but Erik had anticipated that. Faster than she could intake breath, he was behind her, his gloved hand covering her mouth.

She stiffened, feeling the hard wall of muscle behind her. She let her eyes slide closed as she felt his breath on her ear.

"If you promise not to scream, I'll move my hand," he whispered.

Even his whisper was melodic.

Christine turned slowly to face him, desperate to remove her body's contact with his. He kept his hand covering her mouth as she had not yet agreed to his terms.

"Will you scream?" He asked her, his voice low and resonating.

She shook her head.

He removed his hand.

"What are you doing out here," he asked suddenly.

Christine blinked, caught off guard by the question.

"I…I don't know," she answered. "I just wanted some air, I suppose."

"Air," Erik snorted. "It is not customary for a woman to go traipsing about Paris in the middle of the night alone," he pointed out. "That is the behavior of a prostitute."

Christine's cheeks flushed at the insinuation.

Erik continued, seeing her reaction. "Am I to assume, Mademoiselle, that such deviancy is the real reason you are here now?"

Quick as a spark, Christine's hand came crashing down across Erik's cheek.

Stunned, he took a step back.

"How _dare_ you!" She rasped. "How dare you insinuate such a thing of me? As if your life is the model of civility!"

"Forgive me, _Mademoiselle_," Erik replied with contempt and sarcasm, "that I have not been granted such a privileged, _normal_ life as yourself!"

He didn't know why he was reacting to her with such harshness. He only knew that his emotions were abuzz…and the sudden thought that she was out here weeping over a possible lover had clouded all his senses as well as his judgment.

"Privileged?" Christine repeated. "Normal? It is obvious, _Sir_, that you know nothing about me or my life!"

"You're wrong," Erik growled.

He couldn't believe that anyone knew her better than he.

"Oh am I?" Christine countered. "Then if you know me so well, why don't _you _tell _me_ why I am out here, crying in the dark…alone!"

Erik remained silent, his eyes burning into hers.

For a long moment neither moved.

Then, inhaling heavily, she spoke.

"I was crying out of fear that my angel of music had left me forever."


	7. No Angel

**_Good mornin!_**

**_Thanks for the reviews...you guys are awful sweet! I've been reading through a few of your profiles...mostly, you're all Americans! Shocking! ;)_**

**_Enjoy! Look for another update shortly. _**

**_Nico_**

* * *

****

Erik's body went rigid, the anger that had been threatening to overwhelm him suddenly oozing back down into the darkest recesses of his soul.

She was staring at him, expecting a response.

He could barely stand the site of her reddened cheeks and nose, the silver rivulets of tears that had begun to leave their tracks across her face, her parted lips that were quivering just slightly.

When he spoke, he barely recognized his own voice.

"I am no angel," he said bitterly.

Christine's forehead crinkled in confusion. "But that voice…"

"You forget, Christine," he said, calling her by her name for the first time, " you've already realized that my voice is deceptive."

She remained silent, conflicted by her impression of the man before her.

Erik took a haggard breath. "I cannot live up to the expectations you have of the man you created in your mind."

"You don't even know what my expectations are," Christine replied quietly.

Erik scoffed. "Don't insult my intelligence by suggesting that _this_," he gestured aggressively to the mask on his face, "was what you envisioned as you slept."

Christine winced at the mention of his disfigurement.

Erik did not miss the reaction.

It broke his already shattered heart.

"No, it wasn't," Christine admitted quietly.

"Then perhaps it is my expectations of you that are impossible to force into reality," he replied, suddenly angry again. His eyes blazed behind the mask as he struggled to regain control of his once again destroyed ego. "I owe you an apology, Mademoiselle," he said, his voice dark. "I should never have come to you in the first place."

He turned, his cape flaring as he headed back up the cobblestones towards the Opera Populaire.

Christine watched him go, her entire being shaking with the sudden need to call him back, to tell him not to leave her…to impress upon him just how much his nighttime companionship had touched her…moved her into thinking that there just might be someone out there who would love her as much as her father did.

But instead, she let him go, falling to her knees in the darkness he left her in.

* * *

The Opera Populaire was buzzing with excitement.

It had been common knowledge for some time that the opulence and frivolous spending nature of the managers had begun to affect the ledgers, forcing budgetary restraints that ultimately compromised performances. To the trained eye, such cuts were visible in the cheapened fabrics used for costumes, the less-than-perfect lighting quality and the fact that three of the violinists in the orchestra were dangerously close to breaking the last of the new strings installed on their instruments.

In order to live up to its lavish reputation, the Opera Populaire was forced to seek refuge in the arms of a new patron…

A patron who was scheduled to arrive at the Opera at any moment.

Christine stretched her long limbs gracefully backstage, barely paying attention to the flitter of excitement coursing all around her.

"I hope he's young," Meg was saying, fiddling with the ribbons in her hair. "The last two patrons were dreadfully old." She looked up to her taller friend. "Christine, are you listening to me?"

"Huh?" Christine asked, her eyes slightly glazed.

Meg snapped up from lacing one of her ballet slippers. "What is _wrong_ with you?" She asked. Then, remembering suddenly, she smiled. "Ohhh," she said knowingly, lowering her voice. "I suppose my mind would be preoccupied with terrible, sinful thoughts too if I were you!"

"Oh Meg," Christine said, about to admonish her friend for such a positively wicked insinuation.

But she didn't have a chance.

The new patron had arrived.

Christine didn't know if she followed or was pushed by the throng of ballerinas that gathered at the edge of the backstage curtains, straining to get a glimpse of the man of the hour.

For several moments, her vision was obscured by Mary Dupont's extravagant hairstyle, which Meg referred to as the "poodle."

Then suddenly, she caught full site of the new Patron.

"_Raoul…"_ She breathed, completely in shock at her recognition of the tall, handsome man who was now shaking hands with Piangi.

Meg looked up at her. "Christine, do you know him?"

Christine nodded, her eyes hazy once more. "I do," she replied softly. "Lord help me, I do."


	8. The Vicomte, Our Patron, Indeed

**_Oh hello Raoul? You're going to be joining us in this story?_**

****

**_Ok. I suppose you must. Just try not to cause too much trouble. ;)_**

**_Nico_**

**_

* * *

_**

It was as if her voice was a beacon, drawing Raoul's attention from the rather hefty tenor who was shaking his hand with such force, Raoul was certain his arm would snap.

All at once he recognized her. How she had changed! Gone were the smattering of freckles across her nose that he would tease her mercilessly about as children…she was certainly no longer a child! The skimpy costume she wore for the opening act of Hannibal proved this, hugging her lush curves with sumptuous lines that were impossible to ignore.

Although Raoul had told himself that his relationship with the Opera Populaire would be strictly business…his father had warned him against emotional attachments to his financial investments…he could not stop himself from leaving the small circle of managers and divas and approaching Christine.

"Oh God!" Christine exclaimed, shrinking behind Meg. "He's coming over here!"

Meg craned her neck to see the new Patron walking determinedly towards the group of ballerinas, who were now primping, hoping to catch the handsome young man's eye…if only for a second.

He stopped in front of the group of women, looking past their words of welcoming, trying to spot Christine.

She had just been there a moment ago.

Mary Dupont forced her way to the front of the throng, but not before quickly tightening the corset that displayed her generous bosom. "Have you a name?" She purred seductively. "Or shall we just call you Monsieur Vicomte?"

"Raoul," he replied, barely making eye contact. "Raoul De Changy. Excuse me, but wasn't Christine Daae just standing…"

"She's here!" Meg suddenly called out, moving from in front of her friend.

"_Meg!_" Christine hissed as the blond pulled her out into Raoul's site.

Raoul's heart missed a beat as Christine was suddenly dragged before him.

"Christine," he breathed, immediately pulling her into a tight embrace. "My God! It IS you!"

"Hello Raoul," Christine said, her voice muffled by his overzealous hug. He held her at arms' length, as if to better inspect her.

"What ever are you doing here?" He asked earnestly, pulling her slightly away from the curious stares of the ballerinas.

"I've been here since Father died," she replied quietly.

Raoul embraced her once more. "My family was saddened to hear of his passing, Christine. We made several attempts to contact you, but by the time word had reached us you had already left."

Christine rested her cheek against his chest.

How comforting it felt! How he reminded her of her carefree youth!

As his arms relaxed, Christine pulled away, keeping an appropriate distance. She swiped at a tear that threatened to spill, having been prompted by such dear memories of a much happier time.

"You look well, Raoul," she commented, changing to a lighter topic.

"Thank you," he replied, giving a slight bow of his head. "And it seems that we shall be able to enjoy each other's company much more frequently," he added.

"It seems so," Christine relented, offering him a smile.

He gazed at her for another moment before sighing. "I must return to my business, Christine." He said reluctantly. "But perhaps you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner this evening?"

When she didn't immediately give her answer, Meg elbowed her in the ribs.

"That would be lovely," Christine answered.

"Perfect. I will pick you up at seven." He allowed a gloved fingertip to trace the outline of her now reddened cheek. "Don't be late, Little Lotte."

Christine smiled at the childhood nickname, watching as Raoul headed back over to the waiting managers.

As soon as his attention was off of her, Christine ducked back into the folds of the backstage curtains, Meg on her tail.

"Why did you tell him I was here?" Christine asked, her hot face in her hands.

"Christine! When the new Patron of the finest theater in all of Paris requests to see you, you oblige!" She placed her hands on her hips. "Besides, weren't you close to him once before?"

Christine nodded. "Very close," she admitted.

"Then whatever is the problem?" Meg pressed. Then, a flare of remembrance crossed her face. "Oh Christine! Your lover! I had completely forgotten…"

"He's not my lover," Christine interrupted.

"But you want him to be," Meg more stated than asked.

Christine bit her lip.

That mysterious man…that man whose name she _did not even know yet_…that man whose voice bewitched her…whose perfect hands caressed piano keys as if they were a woman's body…

Could she even entertain the possibility of being intimate with him without completely shattering?

"Poor Christine," Meg said, suddenly wrapping a supportive arm around her friend's shoulder. "You are in love with someone who does not feel the same!"

Christine jerked her head up. "Love? When did I ever say I was in love?"

Meg winked. "I can see it," she touched Christine's face gently. "In your eyes."

Christine shook her head to protest, but then stopped short.

She was in love.

She was in love with that voice…that voice that was powerful…that voice that had dragged her from the darkness that she had retreated to when her father died.

But the man who possessed that voice…_that_ man was obviously incapable of love.

"Go to dinner with the Vicomte," Meg said. "Come, rehearsals are over. I'll help you to get ready."

"No," Christine said, but then noticing the look of hurt in Meg's eyes added, "Not yet. Come to my room in an hour."

Meg smiled. "I won't be late, _Little Lotte_."

As the small blond flitted away, Christine began to wonder just what she was getting herself into.

* * *

Christine sat motionless in front of her vanity mirror, almost mechanically applying lipstick to her already rouged lips. The white corset and thin layers of silk that she wore under only her finest clothing blended in with the paleness of her skin.

She looked like a ghost.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, a stiff wind swept through her room, rustling papers and lifting her hair from her shoulders. She turned instinctively towards the only other mirror in the room.

There, standing in the now swung open mirror, dressed in tight black slacks and an equally opulent black vest buttoned over a crimson shirt was _that man_…

And by the look of his golden eyes, it was obvious that he was very, very angry.


	9. Threats

**_Good morning!_**

**_I think most of you will enjoy this chapter..._**

_**Nico**_

* * *

****

Christine was instantly on her feet, grasping for the closest thing she could find to cover her exposed body.

It happened to be a curtain, which toppled over the illuminated gaslight sitting on the vanity as she whipped the cloth across her bare skin.

The room fell into utter darkness.

Christine remained motionless, painfully aware that _he_ was moving towards her.

She felt his hands on her bare shoulders before she was aware he was _that_ close, causing her to gasp with fright.

Erik let his fingers linger across the soft skin of her arms and the nearly translucent skin at her throat that barely hid her spasming heartbeat.

He moved behind her, placing one thickly muscled arm around her waist, pulling her small frame impossibly close to his, splaying his large fingers across the expanse of her midsection.

The effect was a complete loss of time or space for Christine. There was only she, he, and the darkness that blanketed them both.

"It would seem you have found the face that matches the voice," he breathed into her ear, his tone menacing and bitter.

Christine closed her eyes as his other hand came up her side, moving the heavy veil of her hair from her neck so that he could lightly wrap a gloved hand around her swan-like neck.

"I…I don't know what you're talking about," Christine stammered, her voice cracking.

"I think you do," Erik countered. "Tell me, Christine…will you writhe in your sleep for him as well?"

Christine spun around, ready to slap him once again.

But Erik was never one to allow himself to be taken advantage of twice.

He grasped her right wrist as her hand came up, and then the left after he had captured the right. Her breath was coming raggedly…and although he could not see her face, he knew it was twisted into a mask of fear, anger and embarrassment.

Had she been able to see his face, she would have seen the smirk that came just before his lips crashed down upon hers.

At first, Christine could not think of anything else but struggling, desperately pushing him from her.

It was no use. His large frame easily overpowered her, the determined stroke of his lips and tongue locking her face to his.

At some point, Christine realized she was no longer pushing him away, but pulling him closer, her thin fingers grasping at the silk of his shirt, her chest pressed against his, her mouth soft and pliable as she devoured him, only slightly aware of the heavy white mask that was bumping against her cheek and chin in a rhythm that matched the movement of Erik's jaw.

Suddenly, Erik became aware of her submission…and the realization changed the moment…

Where he had originally thought of his kiss as a threat…as a show of the power he wanted her to believe he held over her…he now felt strange sensations of warmth…of the need to protect her…to prevent any hurt or pain to ever befall her.

And because of that, he pulled away suddenly, turning his back to her, placing his fingers to his lips.

Christine shivered as he left her embrace, feeling vulnerable, frightened and exhilarated all at once.

Perhaps it was the exhilaration that made her speak to him.

"What is your name?" She asked boldly.

She saw his back stiffen at the question.

It had been some time since anyone cared to ask his name.

He hesitated to answer.

He sensed Christine moving closer to him. She placed a hand on his shoulder, slowly turning him to face her.

Her lips were ruddy, as were her cheeks. A think line of sweat was visible on her brow; the heat of their kiss had obviously not gone unnoticed by her body. Her pulse still fluttered at the base of her throat and her hands were shaking, but she seemed braver…more intense.

"Your name," she repeated softly.

He looked down at her.

And for the first time since he lived with his mother, he felt a flame of possessive adoration for another human being.

"Erik," he said quietly, as if speaking his name would shatter her. "My name is Erik."

Christine smiled, her hand coming to rest on his mask.

For a moment, Erik feared she would remove it again, but she didn't. She merely pulled her hand away and lowered her eyes.

A knock on the door interrupted the brief moment of comfort the two shared.

"Christine?" Raoul's voice came from the other side of the door. "Christine, are you dressed?"

Erik's eyes ignited once more, the sound of the man in the hallway the source of the fire burning within him.

Christine looked frantically from Erik to the door, where another, more insistent knock was heard.

"Tell him to leave," Erik demanded, his voice deep, carrying all of the power that had ebbed as a result of their kiss. "Tell him you do not wish to be disturbed."

"I…I cannot!" Christine exclaimed.

"_Tell him now!" _Erik roared.

Raoul pressed his ear to the door.

He heard a voice.

A male voice, speaking harshly to Christine.

"Christine?" Raoul called a bit more loudly, trying the doorknob.

The room was locked.

Panic seized Raoul as he shook the door. "Christine! Whose is that voice? Who is that in there!"

Erik stared at Christine, becoming more enraged with each second that passed.

Raoul could be heard in the hallway, calling for a key…or a sledgehammer…_anything_ that would gain him access into Christine's room. He was convinced she was in danger, and was announcing this theory to the small group of stagemen who arrived to begin to hack away at the heavy oak door that separated him from Christine.

Christine heard the splinter of wood, seeing the blade of a hatchet begin to peak through the thick wood.

"Dear God," Christine breathed. How would she explain Erik? How could she explain why she stood with him now, in nothing more than undergarments?

Erik looked at her.

An idea formed in his head.

"Come with me," he demanded suddenly, motioning to the mirror and then for her hand.

"What?" Christine asked, slightly horrified by the notion of returning to the lair.

"Come with me," he repeated, his eyes flitting to the door, which was almost completely broken through. He gestured for her hand once more, adding the word, _"now."_

So intense were his eyes…so resonating was his voice…_the _voice…

When the door was finally shattered, Raoul forced his way into the room, his usually perfectly groomed hair falling into his eyes like a veil.

He looked around, his hand on his sword.

The room, however, was empty.


	10. The Aria

**_I now present what's possibly the most intense chapter I have ever written. _**

**_lol. _**

**_Nico_**

* * *

****

Erik half pulled, half led Christine through the various twists and turns that led to his home.

She was frightened; that much was obvious. Where she had been unconscious during her previous descent, she was wide awake now, her mouth parted slightly at the sights she beheld, all enhanced by Erik's mastery of slight of hand.

Erik had to admit that it was quite exhilarating to finally share with someone the small yet spectacular touches he had added to the dank, narrow passageways beneath the Opera Populaire. He smiled slightly as Christine jumped back from candelabra that lit as if by magic, knowing that it was he who had activated the small line of gas that fed the flickering flames. He caught a glimpse of her as they passed a wall of mirrors, each reflecting a warped, distorted image of the onlooker. He nearly laughed when she let out a scream of fright as heavy stone barriers fell behind them, blocking intruders with a simple, unseen pulley system.

Finally, when they came to the boat at the edge of the lake, he turned to look at her in the eyes, slightly disappointed that they still held glistening evidence of fear.

But that was what he wanted, wasn't it?

For her to fear him?

He cleared his throat, offering her his hand to help her into the boat.

Christine walked slowly towards him, the mysticism and enchantment of her surroundings effectively rendering her awestruck.

She placed her hand in his, in taking a breath softly as his hands suddenly found her waist, lifting her effortlessly into the small, sturdy boat.

He followed wordlessly, barely creating a wave upon entering the boat.

Christine sat before him, her body cushioned by the pillows resting in the bottom of the boat. He was focused on his smooth maneuvering of the vessel rather than on her, so for the first time Christine was able to study him.

He was quite handsome, Christine realized with a blush as she gazed up at the strong line of his jaw, the thick, wavy black hair that was slicked fashionably from his forehead, coming to rest just before his shoulders.

As he rowed, Christine noticed the thick muscles of his chest and arms as they flexed beneath the silk of his shirt with the movement of the guiding rod. His legs were braced on the floor of the boat as if he was a mighty captain, built for sea life. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine him on the bow of some great ship, his skin bronzed and his hair carrying kisses from the sun.

But as her eyes rose back up the long lines of his body, she realized that not all of his skin would be bronzed.

The mask looked as if it had been molded to his face; it was almost more human than the blazing eyes behind it.

The disfigurement of his face was horrific; she had seen it for only a moment but would remember it always…but when compared to the rest of his overwhelming beauty, it no longer seemed so devastating…

Christine couldn't help but think that the Devil must have been jealous of God's perfect creation, deciding to mar Erik's splendor with the terrible scars that he bore now.

It seemed, to Christine, a horrible punishment.

She felt the boat slowly scrape land. Looking over her shoulder, she stared in amazement once more. Although she had been here before, the extravagance…the _decadence _of the makeshift home still managed to steal her breath and leave her speechless.

Erik exited first, landing like a cat on the shore, lifting Christine slowly to join him.

She couldn't help but notice he allowed their bodies to touch for a moment longer than was necessary.

Once her feet were on the ground, Erik regarded her for a moment. He looked as if he wanted to speak, but instead ran a hand through his hand and went immediately over to the piano. Christine watched, bewildered, as he began to play, all at once losing himself in the throws of the chords he produced.

It was as if he had forgotten she was there.

And suddenly, Christine felt incredibly jealous.

Of the music!

Without thinking, she moved closer to the edge of the piano. She recognized the tune he was playing; it was the main aria from Hannibal. Unconsciously desperate for his undivided attention, she began to sing.

The silver-leafed voice that abruptly flooded Erik's ears caused him to fumble on the piano keys, striking several errant notes. If Christine noticed, she did not react, instead continuing her performance without missing a beat.

After just a moment, they were unionized…his fingers plucked out the dark undertones and lingering harmonies as her voice lilted and mingled brightness into the dim lair.

The music swelled and pulsated. Before she realized it, Christine was crying…warm, salty tears that ran into her mouth as she sang.

Erik struggled to keep up with the powerful soprano, his musical talent being challenged as Christine effortlessly wrapped her voice around intricate scales and swooping runs that left Goosebumps across the back of his neck.

As the aria ended and the final notes fell into utter silence, Erik looked up at Christine.

Both were breathing heavily, sweating with exertion.

Fire pumped through Erik's veins as he stood suddenly with a snarl, kicking over and shattering yet another piano bench. He advanced on her, but this time she did not retreat.

They collided into a kiss, Christine's body crushed against Erik's with a cry of surrender. His hand locked around the back of her neck, moving and molding her mouth to his. He tasted her tears…licked them from her lips as he raged into her very soul.

When he broke the kiss, he kept her pressed to him, looking down into her weeping eyes.

His lips shook as he spoke…

"You're mine," he growled possessively, pressing his forehead to hers. "You're my angel of music…"


	11. Comforting Christine

_**Hello!**_

_**If you've been reading my works before, you'll remember that I usually don't update over the weekends. I try to update frequently during the week to make up for it. **_

_**That being said, here's the next chapter. You guys prolly won't like this one, but it's necessary for the conflict of the story...**_

_**Enjoy, and thank you all so much for the great reviews! **_

_**Nico**_

* * *

She hadn't wanted to leave him.

Not after such a powerful experience.

Yet, as the night had worn on, Erik had begun suggesting he return her.

Christine couldn't help feeling slighted. After singing the first aria, Erik had kissed her, and she had not pulled away. True, she was still frightened of him…his very presence set her body on alert, warning her that anything could happen. Reluctantly, he had broken their embrace, moving elegantly back to his piano, playing softly, coaxing pristine notes from Christine's throat.

In the depths of the Opera House, there was no light…no clocks…no discernible measure of time. Christine had no idea if she had been down there for minutes…hours…days…

Not that it mattered. Nothing had mattered to her but the rhythmic music that seemed to possess her body. So much so that when Erik had suggested bringing her back she had nearly cried.

"I don't want to leave," she had whimpered like a child.

"You must," Erik had said matter-of-factly, barely making eye contact with her. "You do not belong down here."

Christine's brows had furrowed, completely taken back by this sudden change of attitude.

And so she now found herself quickly and quietly deposited back in her chambers, with not so much as a good-bye from the man who earlier in the evening had clutched at her with such possessiveness she was sure she would die.

* * *

As the mirror slowly closed behind him, Erik leaned against it, closing his eyes against the resulting darkness. His breath was tight in his chest, his usually cold hands sweating beneath leather gloves.

He had seen her eyes, how they had been completely mesmerized by his music.

He was certain it had not been genuine affection.

In his youth, he had traveled with a band of gypsies, using his amazing musical and magical talent to hypnotize nearly everyone who crossed his path. He manipulated his supposed 'managers' into making little to no profit on his performances, instead accumulating an indescribable wealth off of the horror of his face and the beauty of his voice.

The same mystical glaze that had crossed over the faces of the masses who would stare at him, bewitched by the 'living corpse,' had been evident on Christine's face.

The realization had been a painful one to come to.

There had been moments when Erik was convinced she was there of her own will…as if she had sought him out instead of the opposite.

But then, the illusion was shattered as Erik realized she had fallen prey to his nearly unconscious hypnotism.

He could bare the sight of her no longer.

When he had suggested they return, she had looked truly heartbroken. She had told him she did not want to leave…

And the admission had pained Erik's heart, for he did not believe it to be reality.

So he had replaced the passion with which he had played for her…the passion with which he had kissed her…with the same cold indifference that he treated the rest of the human race with.

She had obviously been hurt, but Erik convinced himself that it was better that way…that her pain was justified.

After all, no one could truly wish to remain with him in the darkness.

* * *

"But I heard voices, Christine," Raoul ran a hand through his hair, watching as several stage hands repaired her shattered chamber door. "And then you were gone!"

Christine put down her hairbrush and sighed at her reflection in the vanity, trying to feign an air of utter calm. "I told you, Raoul. I was in the chapel…I was distraught over my father…"

Raoul knelt before her, placing a warm hand over hers in her lap. "Your father has been dead for quite some time, Christine," he said softly. "Am I to believe you still mourn him?"

Christine turned to him, her eyes dark. "I will always mourn him," she informed Raoul.

Always the patient philanthropist, Raoul smiled, squeezing her cold hand. "Of course you will," he said comfortingly. "It was stupid of me to assume otherwise."

Christine genuinely smiled back. Raoul had always known just what to say in a tense situation.

He stood, adjusting his already perfectly placed cravat in the mirror. Christine watched him in the reflection.

Raoul was as beautiful as any man could possibly be, she mused. His coloring was light; his dirty blond hair was stylishly kept, his bright blue eyes always seemed to be sparkling with happiness.

"In any event," he was saying, "I am comforted by your return." He chuckled slightly, placing his hand on her shoulder. "To think I had called the police, only to discover that you were beneath our feet the entire time!"

Christine smiled weakly.

He placed the other hand on her opposite shoulder. "I worry about you, Christine." He said earnestly. "You're so pale…so thin…it's as if you've been hollowed by the terrible experience of the death of Charles."

Christine lowered her eyes, hoping to hide any betrayal that might linger there.

In truth, she was mourning her departure from Erik.

She lifted her lashes, smiling warmly at Raoul. "You needn't worry about me," she informed him. "I'm fine."

He gazed at her for long enough to make them both feel uncomfortable. Abruptly, he removed his hands from her shoulders, clearing his throat. "I would still like for you to join me for a meal," he informed her. "I do hope you will be free for a late lunch after your rehearsals with Madame Giry today?"

He posed the statement as a question, his brows raised in anticipation of her answer.

Raoul had been such a dear friend…and there was something terribly comforting about his presence.

And Lord knew she was in need of comforting.

She raised her eyes to him, smiling warmly. "Yes Raoul, I believe I will be free."

* * *

Raoul's easy manner and generally happy disposition seemed to ooze into even the most hardened souls. Christine watched as the once stuffy maitre 'd of La Lourne, the premier café in Paris, became a soft ball of clay under Raoul's requests. Their wine glasses were filled moments after being emptied…a never-ending procession of freshly baked breads, fresh fruits and cheeses were brought to the small table Christine and Raoul shared…and eventually, Christine's stomach was full and her heart was lightened by the undeniably bright ray of light Raoul had brought into her life.

Yet there was an underlying darkness to her that must have been noticeable.

As the waiter refilled his glass for the third time with a rich, aged wine, Raoul took a sip, looking over his glass at Christine. "You're quiet," he remarked.

Christine snapped to attention, dragging her thoughts out of the Opera Populaire's depths.

"I'm sorry," she said, forcing a smile. "I suppose I'm just tired."

"Your late night in the chapel must have contributed to that," he noted, taking another sip.

Christine nodded, smiling nervously. "Yes, I lost track of the time."

Raoul nodded, easing back into his chair. "Is anyone courting you, Christine?" He asked suddenly.

She was caught off guard by the question. "Yes," she answered without thinking, and then, noticing his crestfallen face, quickly said, "I mean, no…"

Raoul's brow furrowed. "Well, which is it?" He said, smiling lightly.

Christine blushed. "No," she replied. "No one is courting me."

Raoul smiled. "Then perhaps I should make my intentions clear, before that changes." He reached over, taking her shaking hand in his. "I've missed you, Christine. I've longed for the days of my youth that were filled with your beauty," he rubbed his thumb over the top of her hands. "Your voice."

The mention of her voice startled her. Besides the hours spent singing beside Erik last night, Christine had not sung since her youth, accompanied by her father's violin.

"Have the managers heard your voice?" Raoul pried.

Christine took a sip of her wine, mostly to pull her hands from his grasp. She shook her head. "No," she replied. "I'm solely a dancer at the Opera Populaire."

"That's a shame," Raoul commented. "Perhaps we will have to change that."

"What do you mean?" Christine asked.

Raoul shrugged. "It seems a waste of a formidable talent," he explained. "Surely a soprano as powerful as you would be considered an incredible asset to any theater."

"You've forgotten Carlotta," Christine said, nearly shuddering at the mere mention of the Opera Populaire's most revered…and hated…diva.

"Ah, Carlotta," Raoul said. "Yes, I've heard of her. From what I understand, cotton balls are in short supply when she is singing."

Christine couldn't help but giggle. "That's a perfectly horrible thing to say, Raoul."

Raoul shrugged again. "Sometimes the truth hurts." He took another sip of his wine. "All I'm saying is that the managers should hear you sing," he repeated. "Besides, I hear that you're being courted by someone who has just come into a great deal of power at the Opera Populaire."

Christine looked confused. "But…I told you…No one is court…"

Raoul cut her off bygrasping her hand again, staring into her eyes somberly.

And suddenly, Christineunderstood his meaning.

"Oh," she said, looking at the strong hand covering hers. "Oh…"


	12. Voice of an Angel

**_A shorter chapter, but I believe I will have one more update today..._**

**_Nico_**

* * *

****

Christine nervously twisted her hands, feeling incredibly alone in the world as she stood on the stage, the opening chords of the main aria from Hannibal, 'Think of Me' begining to resonate through the auditorium.

Vaguely, she could make out silhouettes of small groups of people sitting as audience members. She knew that Raoul was there, sitting beside Monsieurs Firmin and Andre, silently supporting her. She could see Madame Giry standing backstage with Meg, both nodding enthusiastically, thrilled for Christine's chance to impress those who were obviously about to judge her performance.

Christine took a deep breath, trying desperately to will the images of Erik from her mind. The pianist who accompanied her now was no where near as amazing as Erik; his rendition of Think of Me was mechanical…no variations on the composition existed…it was painfully bland.

For a moment, Christine feared that her voice was only captivating when she sang alongside of the mysterious man she had not seen in nearly a week.

But as soon as the first note escaped her lips, the catty whispering of the ballerinas in the audience stopped and an immediate and undeniable feeling of exhilaration came over everyone within earshot.

Including Erik.

He lifted his head slightly, allowing the small ray of light that was creeping through the vents to illuminate his white-as-snow mask. He paused in the narrow passageway, completely unprepared for the glorious assault of Christine's voice on his senses.

He had fought hard to block the memory of her sweet voice, how they had melded into one seemingly perfect entity where neither time nor space could be deciphered.

But now, whenhe was least prepared for it,the allure was unavoidable, as was the possessiveness that suddenly swelled within Erik's breast.

_Who was she singing for?_

Christine knew she held her audience in the palm of her hand. And so, as every artist must, she pushed the envelope, performing a series of staccato notes that caused the pianist to pause in his playing, allowing her crystal voice to be heard by itself.

Finally, when the second to last note came, Christine surged an octave higher, piercing the tune with a chill-inspiring arrow that was unmistakably the work of a vocal genius.

For several moments after the music stopped, complete silence was the only thing to be heard.

And then came the rapturous applause that seemed to shake the very stage Christine was standing on.

Graciously, she curtsied. Then, feeling her knees wobble, left the stage, caught in a series of tight hugs and words of praise by the Giry women who had been just as enthralled as everyone else who had heard.

"Where in the world have you been hiding?" Meg was gushing. "Really…you were perfect!"

Christine merely nodded weakly, the thin line of sweat on her brow evidence of her exertion.

"I only wish I knew her secret!" Meg continued, this time speaking to her mother. Then, turning back to the statuesque brunette added, "You must have a new tutor."

Christine felt her cheeks burn. "I…I…" she stammered, trying to untwist her tongue as she thought of her stolen moments with Erik.

Meg suddenly smiled. "I think I know where this sudden, magnificent new side to Christine comes from!" She took Christine's arm, spinning her around playfully.

"What are you talking about, Meg?" Christine asked, alarmed.

Meg tsked her tongue, forcing her lower lip out in a mock-pout. "Oh, dearest Christine! Don't lie to me, your best friend! I _know_ who this mysterious man is that is introducing this entirely new side of you to us!"

Christine blanched. "You do?" She asked meekly.

Meg nodded. "Don't play coy, Christine." She said, still smiling. "You put on a good act the other day…you even convinced _me _that you were meeting the Vicomte for the first time."

Relief flooded into Christine's very soul. "Oh," she breathed. "You mean Raoul."

"Ah, so I see you're on a first name basis," Meg teased.

"Christine."

The three women turned to the new voice, watching as Raoul gallantly approached the stage, taking the side stairwell two steps at a time.

He immediately approached Christine, taking both her hands into his and kissing them.

"My God," he said as he raised his smiling eyes to hers. "You sounded like an angel."

Christine smiled, but inwardly her stomach clenched at the compliment.

It sounded too much like…

Like Erik.

Meg and her mother had graciously left her standing alone with Raoul. Christine watched as her friend winked at her over her shoulder.

Raoul suddenly pulled Christine into the folds of the stage's velvet curtains, hiding her momentarily from the applauding Firmin and Andre who were awkwardly making their way from their seats to the stage.

"Raoul, what are you doing?" Christine gasped, surprised to feel his hand on her waist. "The managers…they're coming."

"Let them come," Raoul said, his voice suddenly dropping into a whisper. He pulled one of her hands to his heart, pressing it earnestly. "Your voice," he said quietly. "It truly touched me."

Christine watched, wondering why she felt horrified as Raoul's perfectly formed lips approached hers.

Then suddenly, a rattling from above caused both Raoul and Christine to jerk their heads upwards.

Christine barely saw the enormous scenery flat crashing down before everything went black.


	13. Giry's Warning

_**Good morning!**_

_**I'm glad some of you are approving of the way I'm writing Raoul. Don't get me wrong, I'm not the biggest Raoul fan in the world, and this is ultimately an EC phic, but Raoul doesn't always have to be evil. (Even though in almost every other Phanfic I've written, he is.)**_

_**Basically, Raoul is not a bad guy. One reviewer put it well...he just fell in love...and you can't blame a guy for that. **_

_**Enjoy!**_

_**Nico**_

* * *

She heard voices around her, but only hints and snips of conversations.

"…_nasty bump…"_

"…_lucky to be alive…"_

"…_behind the curtains with the Vicomte…"_

Christine's eyes fluttered open, met with equal darkness.

"Erik?" She muttered.

Immediately, a cool hand came to rest upon her cheek.

As her eyes focused, she saw the shocked face of Madame Giry. "Christine?" She said, her voice slightly urgent. "What did you just say?"

Christine turned her head away from Madame Giry to see the concerned face of Meg Giry, standing next to the theater's physician.

"What happened?" Christine asked, disoriented.

Meg came to kneel beside her mother. "A flat fell," she said, grasping her friend's hand.

Christine brought a shaking hand to her right cheek and winced as her fingertips brushed the lump they found there.

"You'll be alright," Meg said reassuringly. "And Raoul is okay too."

"Raoul?" Christine repeated, sounding confused.

"Yes, Raoul…the Vicomte…oh, Doctor are you sure she's alright?" Meg asked, sounding worried.

"She'll be fine once she gets some rest," the doctor said tiredly.

"Yes, rest is exactly what she needs," Madame Giry said abruptly. "Meg, please say goodnight to Christine."

Meg looked at her mother, confused by the sudden brashness of her tone. She leaned over and kissed the still confused brow of Christine. "Goodnight, Christine. Feel better."

The doctor followed Meg out, shutting the door lightly behind him.

"You gave us all quite a scare," Madame Giry informed Christine, coming to help her sit up and drink some water. After Christine had drank the contents of the glass, Madame Giry sat in the chair that had been brought to Christine's bedside. "Now I know you are disoriented, but I must ask you something."

Christine regarded the older woman, noting that her eyes were wild with some unidentifiable emotion.

"Anything, Madame," Christine replied.

Madame Giry rose, nervously fiddling with the thin row of pearls at her neck. "Whose name did you speak, child…whose name was the first you thought of upon waking?"

Christine bit her lip.

She had thought she had said his name in a dream.

Apparently, that was not the case.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Madame," Christine said, feeling utterly guilty.

Madame Giry suddenly knelt beside her. "Don't lie to me, Christine," she said urgently. "I _know_ whose name you spoke," she continued. "I _know you've seen him…_"

"Madame Giry," Christine said nervously, her throat tight. Never before had she seen the always-composed woman so frantic.

"Christine, I love you as a daughter," she continued, smoothing Christine's hair with a soft hand. "And as my daughter I must forbid you to continue any contact with…with _him."_

Christine blinked. Madame Giry was so certain that Christine had seen…perhaps even spoken with Erik…that the young woman could no longer deny it.

"But Madame Giry," Christine whimpered, "Why?"

"Dear God," the older woman sighed. "I am too late. Too late…"

"Madame Giry, why shouldn't I contact him…why does he live down there…_who is he?"_

Christine was now almost completely out of bed, her excitement and anxiety over Madame Giry's knowledge of Erik's existence making her forget her injuries.

Madame Giry had walked away. She now stood with her back to Christine, staring out of her small window into the darkening night sky. "He is a broken man," She said suddenly, her voice void of emotion. "He knows nothing of proper social behavior. He operates on threats and violence, for that is all he was ever treated with."

"How do you know that?" Christine asked meekly, the truth of Erik's past too intriguing a mystery to ignore. "Has he spoken to you?"

Madame Giry shook her head. "He's never spoken to me of his past," she admitted. "But I can see the shards of his soul in his eyes…those terrible eyes…"

A knock on the door disrupted the spell that Madame Giry had woven.

"Christine, are you awake?"

Raoul's voice floated softly into the room. Madame Giry sighed and opened the door.

Christine noticed that Raoul too had sustained injury; a large white piece of gauze covered his forehead, bright red blood visible through the bandage.

"Are you alright?" Raoul asked, his face worried.

Christine nodded and began to reply when Madame Giry interrupted. "She is fine," the matriarch told Raoul. "She needs rest."

Raoul nodded, coming to Christine's bedside. "Then sleep, Little Lotte," he said softly, kissing the top of her head. Then, lowering his mouth to her ear he whispered so only she could hear, "Sleep and dream of me."

Christine nodded, easing back onto the pillows of her bed. She watched, smiling weakly as Raoul left.

Madame Giry had watched the exchange wordlessly. She tenderly pulled the coverlet up to Christine's chin, placing a cool hand to her cheek.

"Beware, child, of this dangerous situation you now find yourself in," she said ominously. "There are too many hearts involved that stand to be broken."

Christine watched as Madame Giry hurried out of her room.

She couldn't be certain, but she thought she heard the older woman hitch on a sob as the door closed behind her.

* * *

Erik watched as Madame Giry left Christine's small room.

He couldn't help but feel utterly betrayed by the woman.

Why such morose warnings….why now after she had helped him all these years?

His eyes fell back to the slight, pale figure that lay innocently seductive across sheets white as snow. Even from across the room, Erik could see the ugly purple mark of a bruise marring the porcelain skin of her cheek.

His heart wrenched as he realized it was he that had ruined such beauty.

Strangely, the realization was one he had come to repeatedly over the years. It seemed that the destruction of beauty was his lot in life.

Destruction, however, had not been originally on Erik's agenda as he had silently navigated the catwalk, desperate to get a better glimpse of Christine as she sang…

He supposed it was only fitting that he should be hypnotized by the beauty of her voice, as so many had been bewitched by his in the past.

He had watched, his eyes sliding closed as his entire being was enveloped by the pure notes that radiated from Christine's body…

And just as quickly as it had begun it ended, leaving Erik once more in the cold darkness.

He had watched as Meg enthusiastically embraced her friend.

He had smiled as the little twit mentioned a tutor, causing Christine to blush and stammer.

And finally, Erik had watched as _he_ approached, foppishly complimenting Christine, and then suddenly pulling her into the lush folds of the stage's back curtains, hidden from Erik's sight.

Rage had blinded him.

Making quick calculations based on the positionin which he had last seen that..._boy_, Erik quickly untied a particularly heavy scenery flat.

It wasn't until he heard Raoul's shouts for help that Erik realized he had missed his intended target and hit Christine instead.

Now, he watched as her chest rose and fell in steady movements, silently thanking whatever powers that be that he had not killed her.

He would not have been able to live with himself.

Suddenly overwhelmed by the urgent need to touch her, to assure himself that she truly was alright, Erik silently slid through the mirror-wall.

As he approached her on muted feet, he suppressed the rage he felt towards the Giry woman, reminding himself that if it wasn't for her, he would ultimately have died that night so long ago.

Yet why? Why would she forbid Christine contact with him? What had he ever done to indicate the violence…the threats she spoke of?

And then, Erik realized, that Madame Giry was just another female that saw him as nothing more than a monster.

He paused in his procession towards Christine.

She would see eventually see him in the same way.

Erik brought his hand to his heart, trying to stop the pain he felt there as he came to that realization. Just as quickly as he had entered the room, he turned to leave, unwilling to subject himself to being hurt once more.

"Erik?"

Her voice stopped him in his tracks.

He turned slowly, looking back to see Christine sitting up in bed, her glorious hair tumbling about her face and shoulder in sensuous torrents. Her eyes were wide, almost…happy?…to see him.

"I thought you had left me," she said, her voice slightly accusing. "Why have you come back?"

Erik cleared his throat. "I heard of your accident," he said, feeling guilty. And then, forcing his voice to sound cold again added, "I came to see if you were alright. Now I know you are, so I will take my leave."

He turned again.

"Wait!" Christine said urgently, suddenly getting up from her bed.

"You shouldn't be up…" Erik began, but then stopped as he watched the slender woman pad over to him in stocking feet, her white nightshift clinging to her curves, tormenting his very soul.

She looked up at him, her eyes liquid pools of eagerness.

"I missed you," she said.

By the tone of her voice, Erik knew she was being honest.

"You did?" He whispered, looking somewhere over her head.

"Yes," she replied.

He closed his eyes as he felt her breath on his throat.

"I feared you would not return; I feared I had done something wrong," she said quietly.

Erik felt a pang of guilt again. "You did nothing wrong."

"Then why did you make me leave you?" She asked, sounding like a spurned child.

Erik's chest tightened. _Because it wasn't real…_

_It wasn't real…_

Christine placed a hand on his bare cheek, pulling his gaze down to her.

His heart wrenched as he looked at her beautiful face.

"Take me back there," she pleaded softly.

The crushing, possessive need to have her…to hold her against his body…to keep her with him always…finally overwhelmed Erik.

And though he knew that it was only a matter of time before his hypnotizing spell wore off and Christine finally saw him for the monster he truly was, he obeyed her, silently leading her once more into darkness deep as hell.


	14. Carving Truth

**_Enjoy! _**

**_Nico_**

* * *

Erik watched Christine from his seat at the piano, making certain his fingers kept their slow, steady pace so as not to disrupt the music and draw her attention to him.

She was delicately admiring a particularly messy workspace of Erik's. All across a table covered in black velvet lay scattered pieces of various projects he had started. He watched as Christine's eyes and face lit up as she plucked a small spring that produced a delightfully unique sound Erik himself had appreciated before.

Then, he watched with horrified fascination as Christine came upon a small figurine Erik had meticulously carved from a single block of wood.

He watched as she recognized the tiny figure as none other than herself.

She lifted her eyes to see him, but he had already lowered his gaze, trying to appear buried in his composition.

Christine looked down to the tiny image of herself that she held in her hand. There was something incredibly moving about the little statue, but also something that frightened her to her very bones.

He had even managed to recreate the tiny mole on her forehead…a mole that often went unnoticed by even her dearest of friends.

But what startled her the most was the outfit the figurine was clothed in...

white lace, complete with veil and silken gloves that presumably covered slender fingers.

Still clutching the piece, Christine slowly made her way over to where Erik sat. When she finally stood behind him, she noticed his back stiffen and the notes he was producing edge slightly darker.

Wordlessly, she placed the small carving on top of the piano, directly in his line of vision.

Erik briefly lifted his eyes to the figure, then plunged into a new measure of music, knowing that Christine's action was her way of asking for an explanation.

When he didn't acknowledge her immediately, Christine grew impatient, finally placing her hand on Erik's forearm, which was exposed as he had rolled up his sleeves immediately upon settling in front of his precious piano.

Her touch instantly silenced the music.

Erik looked up at her. Her hand was freezing.

Then, noticing she was still clad in just a nightshift, he rose, silently wrapping his discarded cape about her shoulders.

Christine smiled, clutching the material around her weary, battered body.

Erik couldn't help the pang of guilt that nearly tore him in two as he watched her wince under the pain of her own smile.

Quickly, he moved away from her, pulling his handkerchief from his front pocket and dipping it into the icy waters of the lake.

Then he brought it back to her, holding it in his hand, looking somewhat nervous.

"If you'll permit me," he said thickly, gesturing to the cloth, "I believe this will help the swelling."

Christine nodded slowly. Erik extended his hand, which she took. Without speaking, he led her to a surprisingly plush chaise lounge, motioning for her to sit.

She did.

Tensely, Erik sat beside her. He brought the cold cloth to her cheek, cursing silently as she inhaled sharply against the pain.

Her eyes fixated directly on his.

Damn those eyes! Why did she insist on staring at him like that? Why, with such intensity…an intensity Erik was tempted to take as longing!

"Thank you," Christine whispered suddenly.

She was so innocent…so trusting. The tiny bit of conscience that remained within his heart demanded he tell her that he had caused the flat to fall…that it was _he_ who had almost cost her her life.

Yet, as she gazed at him with childlike appreciation, he could not bring himself to tell her the truth.

He quickly and mechanically brought her hand to the cloth so that he would no longer have to hold it there.

Christine watched confusedly as Erik stood once more, looking down at her, his face unreadable behind the mask.

And as he always did, Erik built back up his guard, replacing his feelings of guilt and yearning with coldness and hate.

"One would think that the Vicomte would take better care of his precious consort," he commended, his voice full of condescension.

Christine looked up at him, her eyes narrowing. "Consort?" She repeated. "What are you insinuating?"

Erik stared at her, his eyes dark and full of apparent anger. "Well, nobody wants a marred lover to share their bed."

His statement had two meanings, and Christine caught them both.

"How _dare_ you?" Christine rose as well. "How _dare_ you insinuate that my relationship with the Vicomte is anything but proper?"

Erik scoffed.

This did nothing but further enrage Christine. "He is a childhood friend," she said, throwing down the cloth and sounding surprisingly strong. "And not that it is any of your business, but I enjoy being around him!"

"I'm certain you do," Erik replied slowly. "As I am certain he enjoys being inside you."

Christine gasped, reeling back and slapping him with all her might. "Bastard!" She spat, tears rolling down her face.

His face stung where her hand had come into contact with it, but Erik refused to give her the satisfaction of wincing.

She sat back onto the chaise, weeping into her hands. After several uncomfortable moments filled with the sound of her sobs, she spoke.

"Why do you say such horrible things," she asked him, her voice dull and defeated.

Erik felt as if she had punched him in the stomach.

He walked over to stand before her again.

"It does not matter what I say," he said quietly.

Christine lifted her bruised, puffy face to him. "Of course it matters!" She rasped. "It matters to me!"

Erik stared at her. "Why?" He demanded.

Christine held his glare for a moment before dropping her head.

Then, overwhelmed by the need for an answer to his question, Erik pressed. "If you cared what I said, you would not have permitted the Vicomte to pull you behind those curtains."

"Allow him? I didn't have a chance to react…he was there so quickly and…"

Suddenly, Christine's mouth fell open.

And even before she spoke, Erik knew he had betrayed himself.

Christine rose slowly before addressing him, her voice cold and fearful. "Erik," she whispered, "How did you know he pulled me behind the curtains?"


	15. Not a Monster

**_I don't know if you realized, but I lowered the rating on this a few chapters ago. The rating is going to go back up, so you may have to search for this in the M category, or add it to your alerts if you want to keep track. _**

**_Nico_**

* * *

Erik did not reply.

Instead, he sat back down at his piano, immediately beginning a dark, somber tune, infuriating Christine.

"You were watching me!" She suddenly realized.

Erik continued to play.

Christine watched him, all the pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together.

"My God," she whispered. "You _made_ that flat fall!"

Erik slammed his hands against the piano keys, producing a menacing sound that caused Christine to flinch and back up several steps.

"Yes!" Erik roared, rounding on her. "It was me! But you should be comforted, Christine…for you now have one more reason to see me as the putrid monster I truly am!"

As if he needed to further prove his atrocity, he lifted a heavy silver candelabrum from the top of his piano, thrusting it at the nearest mirror, which shattered noisily into thousands of crystal pieces.

Christine winced as the loud noise of destruction ebbed into silence, save the heavy breathing of Erik.

"Is that really what you think of yourself?" She asked quietly.

Erik glared at her. "It is what everyone thinks of me," he replied coldly.

Christine felt her heart break at the statement, realizing that it was probably true. How could the man standing before her possibly think anything else of himself?

She approached him slowly as if he was a rabid dog, keeping her movements minimal and fluid, fearful that any sudden outburst would send him spiraling into his violent tendencies once more.

She knew that she should leave. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Madame Giry's warnings played on a loop, reminding her that the man in her presence was broken, shattered by the cruelty he had surely had to endure his entire life.

Why else would he prefer this desperate solitude in the depths of the Opera to the sunlight?

When she finally stood before him, she studied him carefully. True, he looked like a beast with his hair rumpled, the snarling breaths he was taking, the wild golden eyes behind the mask.

But there was something else Christine had seen in him. She had seen tenderness as he carefully tendered her wound…as he had given her his cape…

As he had kissed her feverishly in the darkness.

She brought her hand slowly to his face, stroking his masked cheek.

And although Erik could not feel the touch, he was soothed.

"You are not a monster," Christine told him.

Erik continued to glare at her.

"You are not a monster," she repeated, more firmly.

Erik turned from her, leaning with both arms on a mahogany desk.

"Stop it, Christine," he rasped.

Christine came behind him, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.

He turned to face her.

Tears were evident in his eyes, and a silver trail of liquid was apparent on his bare cheek.

"Erik," Christine murmured again. "You are not a monster."

And then, all at once, Erik collapsed against her, desperately clutching at her waist, burying his head in the silken mass of hair about her shoulder.

Christine embraced him, holding the enormous man as his body shook with silent sobs.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," He was saying. "I didn't mean to hurt you…"

"Shhh," Christine soothed, tenderly stroking his hair. "I know…I know…"

Erik straightened, undeniably embarrassed that he had wept in her presence. Turning from her once more, he regained his composition.

And though he fought to pull up his familiar cold, callous front, it did not come.

And then Erik realized that love was the one emotion left he possessed that he could not control.

He could, however, control the hurt that would inevitably come when she left him.

"Christine," he said, turning to her, his voice tight, "I think it would be best if you left menow."

Christine blinked. "Left?"

Erik nodded slowly. "Yes," he said quietly. "I cannot control my actions when the situation concerns you," he admitted.

Christine looked at him, her bottom lip quivering. "No," she said.

Erik raised his eyebrows. "Pardon me?"

Christine shook her head. "No, I will not leave," she told him.

Why did she have to make this more painful than it already was?

"You must," Erik replied.

Christine took a step forward, "No, Erik. I won't let you push me away."

Erik stared at her in disbelief. He had thought she would leap at the chance to leave him, to eradicate memory of him from her mind.

And now she refused?

"Christine," Erik said helplessly, "I cannot bear to watch you grow closer to…to _him_…right under my nose…"

He was talking about Raoul, she realized.

"Erik," she began gently, "He is a friend…nothing more."

"That is not how he sees you," Erik quipped. Then, more softly, he added, "And I am in no position to compete with your dear Vicomte."

"Who is asking you to compete?" Christine asked. "I've never compared you to him…"

"And therein lies the problem," Erik interrupted. "I will never be able to be the man you need…I will not be able to parade you around at ridiculous social events…escorting you and treating you to the life you deserve."

"You think that is what I search for in a companion?" Christine asked. "Nothing more than an arm to cling to at social gatherings?"

"I do not believe that you'd be willing to spend your life in darkness, with an admittedly insane composer who can barely stand the company of himself, let alone other human beings."

Christine bit her lip at the suggestion, allowing herself to imagine a life with him.

And though it frightened her, it elicited a feeling of warmth that was undeniably pleasurable.

She looked up at him, her eyes intense. "Don't make assumptions about what I'd be willing to do, Erik."

Erik felt as if he was watching the next several moments from somewhere outside of his body. He watched as she rose on tip-toes, placing her hands on his shoulders and bringing her lips to his in an unprovoked expression of affection.

His hands shook as he brought them to her waist, reveling in the intensification of her kiss once she realized he was receptive. Her cool velvet tongue swept across his lower lip, encouraging him to yield to her.

He slammed back into his body, overwhelmed by his primal response to her. Christine moaned slightly as his hands roamed downwards, cupping her rear briefly before hooking under her leg, forcing closeness neither had imagined possible.

He pulled back from the kiss, looking down at Christine's wide eyes, reddened lips and husky breath. Lowering his forehead to hers, he inhaled deeply. "I swore to myself that I would never become close with another," he said quietly. "I swore that I would live alone forever." He ran a hand seductively down her back. "And now, you've ruined my plans."


	16. The Matter of Masks

_**Sorry for no update yesterday. On a more exciting note, I got to meet and record one of my all time favorite bands. (I work in Radio)Of course, I didn't sleep with the lead singer as I had planned, but there will be other opportunities. **_

__

_**Remember, I don't usually update over the weekends. If I get some radical reviews, I might be persuaded, though. lol. **_

_**Nico**_

* * *

****

Erik barely ever slept. Even now, as he watched the woman sleeping comfortably in his arms, sleep eluded him.

Although he surmised that he would have been unable to sleep at the moment even if he didn't already have a tendency towards insomnia.

Their physical intimacy had gone no further than feverish kisses…but in the hours before Christine finally succumbed to her exhaustion when they had lay next to each other, quietly memorizing each other's features, the roots of their connection had twisted and morphed into a relationship that fell just slightly short of trusting.

For several moments after Christine had kissed him, Erik had been too overwhelmed to do anything but cling to her with silent desperation. He had closed his eyes, reveling in her warmth, her scent.

Slowly, he had pulled back, guiltily tracing the outline of the injury to her cheek. Forgivingly, Christine placed her hand over his, smiling at him.

"I should bring you back," he had said softly, straightening his back. "They will return to your chambers to check on you."

"I am a grown woman, Erik," Christine informed him. "Where I go is my business and my business alone."

Erik glanced down at her, his heart surging at the statement.

"However, I will ask one thing of you," she had continued. Erik cocked an eyebrow.

"Anything," he replied earnestly.

She had looked up at him, her eyes smiling. "I fear I'm about to faint from exhaustion," she said, a laugh tinting her voice. "Would it be possible to retire somewhere a bit…" she rubbed her thin arms, "…warmer?"

Guilt had immediately washed over him once more. Of course she would be uncomfortable! Not only was his home damp and cold, but she was wearing nothing more than his cape and a nightgown…and after her…accident…earlier in the day…

He had been angry with himself for being so thoughtless.

Silently, he motioned for her hand, which she took without a moment's hesitation. He led her slowly back towards his velvet ensconced bedroom.

She had raised her eyebrow at him.

"There is nothing…improper…about this, Christine," he had told her. "You may not have noticed, but this is the only area down here that features something you truly need."

Christine placed her hands on her hips.

"The blankets," Erik had clarified, gesturing to the soft black and red silks of his bed. "For your warmth."

Just before she had fallen asleep, Christine had looked up at Erik through sleepy eyes, lightly tracing the outline of his mask. "Erik," she had whispered. "May I tell you something?"

"Yes," Erik whispered back.

She had moved slightly, in a gesture that may be interpreted as cuddling, and let her eyes slide closed. Just when Erik was sure she had fallen asleep before telling him what she wanted, she spoke.

"I feel safe here with you."

She had fallen asleep before he had a chance to reply.

Not that he could have spoken anyhow.

And now, as he lay rigidly beside her, determined not to wake her, he could barely control the fire that was now threatening to shoot from his fingertips, eyelashes and toes.

* * *

Erik had woken her just as the first dusty rays of sun were sweeping across the streets of Paris.

Of course, in the lair, the same staunch darkness that always existed still enveloped them.

Wordlessly, the pair had walked back up the spiraling stairwells and dripping hallways to the elusive mirror that separated Erik from the outside world.

She turned to him just before walking into her room, smiling gently at him.

"Will I see you again?" She whispered.

Erik took her hand in his, raising it to his lips. He looked up at her, his eyes golden flames. "Even death could not keep me from you."

Christine smiled sadly. She had heard such promises before. Her father had said something eerily similar just before he died.

Yet Christine had never seen him again.

She moved in towards Erik, tilting her face to his. The purple bruise had finally stopped swelling, pooling in dark streaks about her cheek, eye and forehead. Erik paused to kiss the injury before letting his lips rest upon hers.

Then, just as elegantly, he was heading back down the hallway to his lair, his silken cape flaring behind him.

It was only ten minutes later that Christine heard a powerful, decidedly happier piano ballad begin to course up through the vents of the Paris Opera House.

* * *

Upon hearing of Christine's amazing vocal gift, Carlotta had abandoned her role in Hannibal. Christine had watched from backstage as she argued dramatically with the Managers just after they informed her that Christine would be performing the main aria in the performance.

"You prefer that little…nothing…to me?" Carlotta had shrieked. "I am the reason this place manages to be so successful…you ruin me…you ruin yourselves!"

And then, in a flurry of handmaids, barking poodles and perfume, she was gone.

Raoul had been quick to offer a suggestion. Christine watched as he approached the managers, his face smiling.

"If La Carlotta wishes to leave the Opera Populaire, then so be it," he said, loudly enough for everyone in the auditorium to hear. Then, he turned to face Christine, who backed up slightly at the glance. "It doesn't matter, for we have discovered a new talent that will quickly bury any memory of that awful woman."

He gestured for Christine to join him on stage.

She obliged, feeling uncomfortable under the judgmental stares of the ballerinas she had studied with for so long.

"I now re-introduce you all to Miss Christine Daae," Raoul said grandly. "The woman with the voice of an angel."

She raised her eyes to his briefly, trying to ignore the flicker of heat she found there.

A smattering of jealous applause resounded through the theater.

"And to celebrate this refreshing change to the production of Hannibal," Raoul continued, "I'm pleased to announce that we will be holding a Masquerade …this Friday night!"

Hushed gasps and excited whispering immediately flooded Christine's ears as ballerinas, actors, singers and orchestra members buzzed with anticipation.

It had been some time since a ball was held at the Opera Populaire.

"Raoul," Christine whispered. "Is all of this really necessary?"

"Of course, Angel!" He replied, placing her hand delicately on his arm as he led her away from the stimulus of the crowd. "What better way to celebrate your success?"

"You don't think it's a little premature?" Christine pressed. "I've only just sung before an audience for the first time…who is to say that I will be a success at all."

"Little Lotte," Raoul said affectionately. "You worry too much. When Paris hears your voice, they will fall in love with you. Much like I already ha…"

He stopped short.

Christine's blood ran momentarily icy.

Raoul cleared his throat. "Yes, well. _They_ will love you."

* * *

Much later, as Christine lay in bed, silently praying for Erik to appear, a plan began to formulate.

A Masquerade…

That meant everyone in attendance would have his or her face covered by a mask…

It seemed an appropriate venue for someone who had no choice in the matter of masks.


	17. Preparations and Invitations

**_Those reviews WERE rad!_**

**_I'm sorry I didn't update over the weekend...it's not that I don't want to...I just tend to be stuck in a recording studio sat and sun...so it's difficult to find the time to write!_**

**_In any event...enjoy!_**

**_Nico_**

* * *

****

"You would like me…to escort you…to a Masquerade?"

Erik stood with his arms clasped over his chest, staring at Christine with his always intense eyes.

Christine fiddled with the cloak she wore over her nightclothes. She let her fingers trace the mahogany piano she stood next to mindlessly.

She had blurted out the invitation over a particularly soft ballad Erik had been playing for her. At first, he hadn't been sure he had heard her correctly. But then, after she repeated her request in a timid, almost pleading tone, he was certain she had asked him to take her to the grand Masquerade being held in her honor.

"No one would even realize who you were," she said tentatively. "Everyone will be wearing a mask…even me!"

Erik sighed. In his wildest fantasies he had gallantly escorted a shimmering Christine on his arm through the streets of Paris, granting her every wish and whim in the sparkling lavishness of the city's grand life.

But now, when he stood on the brink of such a fantasy becoming reality, he was having serious doubts.

"I don't think I could manage, Christine," he said softly. "While I am not ignorant to the petty musing and social properness of the typical Parisian gala, I hardly think I fit the image of someone who would be comfortable at such an event."

Christine tsked her tongue, suddenly feeling as if she were coaxing a very young…and very clever…child from a hiding place.

"You can't stay down here forever, Erik," she said quietly.

She was met with a glare.

"I have done it for nearly my entire life," he replied. "The passage of one more meaningless soiree will mean nothing to me."

Christine's brows furrowed. "This is not just "another meaningless soiree," she said, her voice sounding hurt. "It is important to me…just as it is important to have the one person who made all of this possible by my side."

Erik snorted. "I've done nothing to forward your career, Christine," he told her. "It was your talent…your voice…it had nothing to do with me."

"You're wrong!" Christine exclaimed. "Before I came down here…before I met you…I had no reason to sing." She sounded bashful at the admittance. "You are the _only_ reason I have been granted this amazing opportunity. Me…a lowly ballet rat…transformed into the star of Hannibal!"

Her voice was filled with excitement…even pride. Erik noticed that she seemed more confident…more alive. Under the diminishing bruise across her face was a pink flush to her skin…her eyes were glimmering with happiness.

And she believed it was he that brought her such happiness.

"Christine," he began softly.

"Please, Erik," Christine interrupted. "I _need_ to have you there with me. You will be masked…we can even make up an entirely new persona for you…you can have a brand new identity!"

She stood before him, offering him things he only imagined possible in his dreams.

How could he possibly say no?

* * *

The next several days were filled with a flurry of extravagance Christine had only read about in novels.

The Masquerade would serve two purposes, according to the business-minded Raoul. As he organized invitation lists with Monsieur Firmin and Andre, he explained that not only would the lavish ball introduce Christine into polite society as a respectable member of the arts, but would solicit donations to the Opera Populaire from some of the most well-to-do members of Paris.

Raoul also insisted that preparations for the Masquerade begin immediately. He insisted that all of the cast members dress in extraordinary costumes…as if the Masquerade was a performance in and of itself.

"We must cater to high society's every decadent wish," he said, standing on stage as if giving the audience, comprised of every member of the Opera Populaire, a splendid monolouge. "Our costuming department has generously agreed to assist all of you in selecting costumes that suit the occasion. Please be on time…promptly at 8. And, of course, many of you have been given additional responsibilities this week…the ballroom is now ready to be decorated, and I will ask that the remainder of today be dedicated to creating an atmosphere that will be the talk of the city for months to come."

Applause erupted. Raoul De Changy, with his winsome smile and smooth, charming mannerisms, would always captivate any crowd he stood before. Even the Opera Populaire's managers seemed to be taken with him, rushing to his side on the stage, showering him with praise, marveling at his authority and offering their assistance in 'any way possible.'

Christine watched from the wings of the stage as the 'audience' slowly filtered out, giddy with excitement. She was impressed with Raoul…who, as a child, had been bumbling and awkward.

Suddenly, he caught her eye, holding up a hand to the managers, indicating he would return in a moment.

Subconsciously, Christine straightened her hair as he approached.

"You're doing a marvelous job as patron," she told him once he was in earshot. "Most of our other patrons never even bothered to be in attendance for a performance, much less throw a Masquerade."

Raoul smiled at the compliment. "I don't take on responsibilities that I don't intend to see through," he told her, kissing her hand politely. "Have you decided on a costume?" He asked. "As our star, it's important that you look positively ravishing." He shot her a mischievous look. "Not that it will be difficult for you."

Christine blushed, feeling slightly uncomfortable under the compliment. "Such things you say, Raoul."

He placed her arm in his and began to escort her from the stage. "There is something I wanted to ask you, Christine."

Her stomach tightened.

"It seems only fitting you be escorted to the ball," he began.

Her hands clenched.

She knew what was coming.

"I would like to formally offer my services," he said, bowing in a slightly humorous manner. "As your dedicated escort for the evening."

Christine stopped walking and turned to face him.

She forced a polite smile, although Madame Giry's words suddenly resurfaced in her mind.

_Too many hearts stand to be broken…_

Raoul was looking at her, his eyes smiling, his face hopeful.

"Oh, Raoul," Christine said softly. "While I do appreciate the offer, it seems I have already accepted the offer of another."

Raoul's face instantly fell. Yet, always the gentleman, he masked his disappointment with a tight smile. "Of course," he said, sounding utterly crushed. "How silly of me to assume you would not have already been asked."

Christine felt terrible as she watched her old friend adjust his cravat, as if it were suddenly choking him.

"Raoul, I'm sorry…truly," she began.

"Think nothing of it," Raoul interrupted. Then, he took her hand in his. "I suppose a dance will have to suffice."

He kissed the back of her hand and abruptly turned from her, heading back over to where several cast members now stood waiting with swatches of fabrics for Raoul to choose from to decorate the ballroom.

Christine leaned against the back wall of the stage, exhaling heavily.

How on earth was she going to explain Erik to Raoul?


	18. Death and his Angel

**_A short chapter...but an update is an update, right?_**

**_I like where this is going...hope you guys do too!_**

**_Enjoy this rare, lighter side of Erik. _**

**_Nico_**

* * *

Erik looked at his reflection in one of the many cracked mirrors that were in his lair, feeling utterly ridiculous.

Most of his clothing was fashionably eccentric; Erik figured that since his face could never be considered beautiful, his clothing would.

Nothing he wore on a daily basis, however, compared with the outfit he presently found himself in.

The past three nights of his life had been filled with Christine's excited jabber over the Masquerade. Each night she had come to him, her eyes filled with the same exuberance that filled a child's eyes on the Eve of Christmas.

She had insisted he dress the part of the new persona she had carefully weaved for him.

He smiled slightly as he remembered the night before, and how she had playfully bestowed upon him his new identity.

"I hereby dub you Sir Erik DuLange, a member of her Royal Highness's court, and the newest, finest composer in all of England," Christine had said, dramatically touching an antique sword Erik kept in the lair to each of his shoulders.

"Must I be English?" He had asked, enjoying the look of annoyance that briefly flashed across Christine's face. "The English are so terribly boring…"

"Watch what you say," Christine said, now holding the sword in a playful, but menacing fashion. "My mother was English."

"That explains why you bore me to tears," he replied, now smiling gently.

Christine had obviously been pleased with the slight change in his tone.

"You must remember, Erik, to mask your accent as much as possible," she had instructed.

"My accent?" He had repeated. "What accent?"

"It's terribly strange," Christine had informed him. "Not quite French…yet not quite anything else. It was the first thing I noticed about you…before I actually met you."

"I've lived in many places," Erik explained.

"Yes, well, for both our sakes, I hope England was one of them," she replied.

"The English accent is simple," Erik said, demonstrating in perfectly accented tones.

Christine had clasped her hands together in happiness. "Perfect!" She had exclaimed. "And now, there's just a small matter of your costume."

"I'm not wearing a costume," Erik had said tersely. "I will be wearing the mask, that is enough."

"No, it isn't," Christine had replied. "You forget that you are escorting a _star…_"

Erik scoffed.

"…and you must match her regal excellence." Christine continued, ignoring him.

"I am pleased that your successes haven't gone to your head," Erik mocked.

"Please, Erik," Christine had replied in a more serious tone. "You must come in costume."

And now he stood before the mirror, shaking his head at his own reflection.

He had decided to wear a slightly different mask than he normally would, choosing a full blackone which covered the entire upper half of his face, leaving only his chin and mouth exposed. For added effect, he had outlined the visible skin around his eyes in kohl, making it appear as if his golden irises were peering out of veritable darkness.

He was entirely clad in black and red velvet; an impressive red cloak completing the elegant suit which boasted golden buttons and intricate embroidery. Black boots hugged his lower legs from the knee down, shining and glinting in the dim light.

His hair was slicked back, curling just slightly behind his ears.

He was Red Death, all at once imposing, menacing, and seductive.

This costume, he realized, would do absolutely nothing to allow him his precious anonymity.

* * *

Christine twisted the delicate strings of pearls hanging from her neck around her fingers, feeling terribly anxious.

He was late.

They had agreed to meet on the roof; Erik had insisted he escort her properly…which meant meeting her somewhere other than her private chambers.

The roof had seemed safe and isolated from the ballroom, which was already teaming with increasinglydrunk socialites.

For several horrible moments, Christine became convinced that Erik was not going to come. After all, he had not wanted to to begin with.

But then, just as tears were beginning to well in Christine's eyes, she heard footsteps.

Erik approached, watching as Christine turned slowly in the moonlight.

She was bathed in silvers and blues, which danced across the glittering gown that hugged her pale body.

A tight white bodice pushed hercleavage up just enough to spill gently over the top ofher gown. Erik's eyes followed the swell of the flesh up to her bare collarbone and shoulders. Long white gloves covered her hands, extending all the way to the middle of her bicep. Theskirt of the gown circled around her, enveloping her slender legs in delicate layers of silk, taffeta and satin.

Her hair was swept elegantly away from her face, adorned with dozens of pearl pins which allowed thick curls to spill down her back.

Erik could barely swallow.

When she saw him, she hurried over, her face full of relief and awe. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to come," she told him, drinking in the sight of him.

Erik, feeling a surge of confidence under her obviously approving stare, took her hand in his in a dashing manner, pressing his warm lips to the back ofit for a moment longer than politeness dictated. "I will never break a promise to you," he said quietly. Then, straightening up, still holding her hand he added, "you truly look beautiful."

Christine blushed. "So do you."

He lowered his mouth to hers, taking her lips in his in one fluid, terribly romantic motion.

And there, in the secluded moonlight on the roof of the Opera Populaire, Christine realized she was hopelessly in love with the man behind the mask.

When he pulled from the kiss, Christine felt as if her very soul had been pulled from her mouth along with his retreat. She could do nothing but stare at him.

"Come," he said after several moments of meeting her gaze. "This shall be the performance of both our lives."


	19. The Masquerade Part I

**_My gosh...the reviews are so awesome! They inspire me to write more more more!_**

**_LOL! And now...without further ado..._The Masquerade**

**_-Nico_**

* * *

Raoul had not been kidding when he demanded nothing but the best for the Masquerade ball.

Christine and Erik were late; it was nearly 9pm. Raoul had suggested Christine arrive slightly after 8 in order to make a grand entrance…she just hoped that he wasn't cross.

Silently, they walked down the now empty hallway leading to the ballroom. Christine felt Erik's forearm tighten under her hand as they drew closer to the grand, gilded ballroom doors. Behind the closed doors laughter, music, and general merriment could be heard.

Christine stopped before the doors, turning to face Erik. Since the fantastic mask he wore mostly obscured his face, it was unreadable…

But his eyes held a look of anxious anticipation…and something darker Christine could not identify.

"Erik," she said softly, placing her gloved hand on his cheek to soothe him. "Everything will be fine."

Erik looked down at her, smiling tightly. "Yes," he replied, his voice low and resonating. "I believe it will."

Christine smiled back at him, returning to his side, looping her arm properly through his.

"Then are you ready?" She asked, looking straightforward.

Erik sighed, placing his gloved hand on the golden door handle.

As the heavy door swung open, a scene spread out before them unlike anything either had ever seen before.

They stood in the entranceway, which spilled out onto a sort of platform at the top of a wide, marble staircase. The design was intentional in that it allowed nearly every guest to make an elegant entrance, reveling in the fact that once their feet touched the top step, all eyes would be on them as they made their descent.

No one had noticed the extravagant couple standing in awe at the top of the stairs yet, which allowed Erik to grasp his bearings. Music coursed through the large room…music that was not quite Erik's taste, but suitable for the happy occasion. Couples swirled around the highly polished floor, a mass of colors and movement that dazzled the senses. Fragrant meats and other delicacies tickled the nose, while champagne corks exploded all around them.

Christine tugged at his arm, coaxing him to the light that spilled over the top of the staircase.

No sooner had they stepped into that light than a hush fell over the crowd, who was obviously in awe of the presence of their newest diva and the mysterious masked man at her side.

The first face Erik's cool gaze fell upon was Raoul, who had been smiling broadly until the moment his eyes met Erik's.

Then, his entire presence changed, reflecting a truly crestfallen human being.

Christine, who was getting used to being the center of attention, merely smiled widely, allowing her angelic form to float down the staircase beside Erik, who took the steps in smooth strides, careful to exude the intense presence he always radiated when threatened.

It was little Meg Giry who broke the silence, hurrying over to the base of the stairwell just as Erik and Christine completed their descent.

"Christine!" Meg breathed. "You look positively gorgeous!"

Christine smiled at her friend's compliment. "Thank you, Meg," she said warmly. Then, looking up at Erik, she spoke again. "Meg Giry, please allow me to introduce Sir Erik DuLange, her Royal Highness's finest composer."

Meg's face changed into a knowing expression. She flashed Christine a smile before curtseying politely. "Monsieur DuLange," she said, "So nice to finally meet you."

Erik took the young dancer's hand and lightly placed a kiss on the back of it. "The pleasure is all mine," he replied in careful, British-accented French. Christine's eyebrows raised in surprise. The greeting had sounded so natural…as if Erik had been a member of polite society his entire life.

Would he ever cease to amaze her?

"Monsieur DuLange," Meg continued, leading Erik momentarily from Christine. "Please allow me to introduce my mother."

Before he could escape, Meg tapped her mother on the shoulder, pulling the older woman's attention away from several guests who had been chatting with her about the newest ballet steps.

When Madame Giry turned around, her face fell into a mask of immediate recognition of Erik.

She went white as a ghost, but managed to remain silent as Meg twitted away an introduction.

"Mother, this is Sir Erik DuLange, Christine's escort for the evening and England's finest composer," Meg said, beaming.

Christine watched with apprehension as Erik took Madame Giry's hand much like he had Meg's and kissed it lightly. "Madame," he said softly, trying to read the older woman's expression.

Madame Giry swallowed hard. "A pleasure," she managed to squeak.

As soon as her hand was released, she excused herself abruptly.

Meg watched her mother weave through the crowd. "My apologies," Meg said to Erik, obviously mortified by her mother's bizarre behavior. "Please excuse me while I see what the matter is."

She bobbed another polite curtsey and then was gone in a flash of pink silk, following her mother's hasty exit.

Erik inhaled deeply, looking down at Christine.

"I know you are familiar with her," Christine said softly.

Erik nodded. "I assumed she would have already spoken to you about me."

Christine sighed. "Let us not worry about her," she said. "This evening is special to me."

Erik smiled. "And so we shall keep it special."

He bowed slightly, offering her his hand in an invitation of dance.

Christine placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her gracefully to the dance floor.

She was nearly oblivious to the fact that the dance floor had cleared out upon their arrival. The only thing she focused on was the intense stare of the large man who now held her tightly against his body, leading her in a seductive, dark dance that caused several older women to blush and fan themselves furiously.

Raoul watched as Christine was lead around the dance floor by the mysterious, imposing figure that was holding her too closely for Raoul's comfort.

He walked behind the observing crowd, slowly sipping his champagne. He made his way over to Meg, who, unable to find her mother, was now watching the dance, her face dreamily jealous.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Meg asked, aware of Raoul's silent, brooding presence next to her.

"Who is he," Raoul asked suddenly.

Meg turned to look at the man beside her, whose voice sounded incredibly different from it's usually carefree tone.

"I've only just met him," Meg replied, aware that Raoul was jealous.

She had originally thought that Raoul was the mysterious man who had stolen Christine's heart. But now, as she watched her best friend in the arms of this new man, she was aware that Raoul had never been the object of her affection.

"I find that hard to believe, Meg," Raoul said quietly. "You are Christine's best friend; am I to believe that you have only just met this…man…tonight for the first time?"

Meg narrowed her eyes. "I have no reason to lie to you, Monsieur."

Raoul snorted and took another sip of his champagne. "And it doesn't strike you as strange that she is here now, escorted by a complete stranger?"

Meg shrugged. "She has known him for several weeks now, Monsieur," she said, hoping to placate the obviously angry man next to her.

The information did nothing to soothe Raoul's nerves.

"I do not trust him," he said darkly.

A chill ran down Meg's spine.

There was something about her new Patron's voice…something Meg could not identify, but it frightened her none-the-less.

"Christine has wonderful judgment, Monsieur," Meg said carefully. "I am sure that she is in perfectly capable hands."

Raoul turned to look at her slowly. "That is exactly what I am afraid of, Mademoiselle."

Meg watched as the handsome man turned from her, swallowing the rest of his champagne in one dramatic gulp.

Sighing, she turned back to the dance, where Christine's head was tossed back in flushed laughter.

"You were serious when you mentioned performing tonight," Christine whispered up to Erik, her voice giggling.

Erik winked at her, spinning her quickly away and then back towards his body as the music reached it's final chords.

"Shall we give them something to truly applaud?" He asked her lowly, his voice mischievous.

Before Christine had a chance to answer, his lips came crashing down on hers.

The act was met by stunned gasps from the crowd.

A public kiss was not something encountered every day.

Raoul felt an unfamiliar spark of rage ignite in his stomach as he watched the tall, masked man passionately kiss Christine, lifting her off her feet in a dramatic, swooping gesture just as the music ended.

Everyone was so enamored with the positively glowing couple on the dance floor that no one noticed Raoul's champagne glass shatter under his subconsciously enraged grip.


	20. A Flawless Performance

**_A short chap here. Another update today very likely. _**

**_Don't worry, this isn't going where you think it is. _**

**_Nico_**

* * *

Both managers of the Opera Populaire were drunk.

"And I would like to also take this opportunity to thank Monsieur Firmin," Andre said, slurring his words while addressing the crowd of guests from the top of the marble staircase.

The portly Andre turned to his co-manager and friend. "Firmin, you're a bastard," he said, causing the crowd to laugh. "But I love you like a brother."

Applause rang out, mixed with more boisterous laughs as the two men awkwardly embraced each other.

Even Erik smiled at the sight from his vantage point within the crowd.

"And we'd also like to thank our new Patron, Monsieur De Changy," Firmin continued. "Come, Monsieur, join us up here…speech! Speech!"

Soon the crowd was joining in Firmin's chants, beseeching their patron to climb the marble staircase and address them.

Christine watched from beside Erik as Raoul smiled tightly, climbing the stairs to stand beside the managers.

It was barely noticeable, but there was an edge to his voice as he spoke.

"A toast," he said grandly, holding up a new champagne glass. The guests mimicked his actions. "To the Opera Populaire's continued success."

The audience cheered.

"And also," Raoul spoke again, his voice lilting over the crowd, "to Mademoiselle Daae, whose glorious voice is only overshadowed by her stunning beauty."

Christine blushed under the compliment, which made her feel terribly awkward.

Erik noticed Christine's discomfort and placed a supportive hand at her elbow, applauding gently along with the crowd.

Raoul finished the last bit of his fourth glass of wine. "And now, Mademoiselle, I would be greatly honored if you would share with me, a dance."

Christine felt Erik stiffen.

Raoul began to descend the marble stairwell, heading over to Christine who was looking at Erik with a mixture of fear and apology.

Erik watched with darkened eyes as Raoul approached. The unmasked Patron met Erik's glare until he was just before Christine. Then, he looked warmly down at her.

"Shall we?" He asked, politely bowing before her.

Erik had yet to remove his hand from Christine's elbow.

Raoul looked up at the taller man, his brows flitting together. "Surely you don't mind relinquishing her to me for one dance," he said, loudly enough for the watching crowd to hear. His tone carried a sort of mockery to it, as if Erik was committing some terrible, social faux paux. "After all, I promise to return her in one piece."

The crowd chuckled. Even in the most intense of moments, Raoul possessed the astounding capability to create an air of calm…

Even if he himself was anything but calm.

"It will be alright," Christine said softly to Erik.

He looked down at her, his eyes undeniably hurt. Yet, he released his hold on her elbow, bowing slightly his permission.

Raoul nodded at Erik, quickly whisking Christine to the dance floor.

Erik retreated to the back of the crowd, the slow, moving waltz now being played doing nothing for his mood. Like a cat, he watched as Raoul led Christine around the floor in a series of painfully calculated dance steps.

Several times Christine smiled up at Raoul. Tight, polite smiles, sometimes followed by an equally tight giggle at something Raoul said to her.

Their arms were locked rigidly, keeping their bodies apart.

For this, Erik was thankful.

"Hello."

The female voice from beside him startled him.

He turned to see Meg Giry, Christine's dearest friend.

Often she had been in Christine's presence when Erik would watch her from behind the mirror.

And to be honest, he found the small woman quite irritating.

"Hello Mademoiselle," Erik said without looking at her, quickly snatching a glass of brandy from the tray of a passing servant.

"It's driving you insane, isn't it?" Meg asked him after a moment.

Erik looked back at her sharply. "What?"

Meg smiled. "The fact that someone else is holding the woman you love in his arms."

Erik glared at her.

"That is none of your concern," he told her curtly.

Meg just laughed. "Men," she muttered.

"Excuse me?" Erik retorted, wishing that she would go away so he could concentrate on Christine, whose eyes were nervously scanning the crowd for his.

"Nothing," Meg giggled.

"Monsieur DuLange," she addressed him again after a moment's silence.

Erik sighed. "Yes?"

"Would you like to dance?"

He looked at her, her smiling face, her endearing eyes.

He now knew why Christine loved the girl.

She was infuriatingly sweet.

"I don't dance much, Mademoiselle," he replied.

"Oh poo," she waved her hand. "Try telling _that _lie before you astound a crowd with a flawless dance performance."

Erik couldn't help but chuckle.

Then, looking back to where Christine was now beginning a second dance with Raoul, he began to think.

"Alright, Mademoiselle," Eriksaid. "I believe I will dance with you."


	21. The Masquerade Part II

**_Hope everyone had a great Turkey Day!_**

**_ Three things...One, the rating is DEFINATEY going to be going up soon. Be advised, this chap is a little racy. Please stop reading if you're not interested in sexy situations! Two, I understand that chapter 13 is not showing up for some people. If this is the case, please email me at and I will do my best to email it to you. Three, I wrote this on my laptop while traveling...my laptop glitches when I spellcheck. I looked it over a few times, but I apologize for any mistakes in this chap!  
_**

**_And...as always...ENJOY!  
_**

* * *

Erik watched as the blonde in his arms winked and wiggled her fingers at another young gentleman, who promptly blushed and raised his glass to her.

"May I ask you something," Erik said, his voice low and resonating.

Meg turned her attention back to the man leading her around the dance floor. "Of course," she replied, smiling warmly.

"Why have you bothered to ask me to dance when you obviously already have such a variety of men from which to choose?"

Meg shrugged. "I like to keep my options open," she answered honestly.

Erik chuckled. There was something irritatingly likeable about little Meg Giry.

"Now it's my turn," she continued.

"Your turn?"

"To ask you a question," Meg explained to him. Then, when he stiffened slightly she added, "It's only fair."

Erik nodded in relent.

Meg took a breath.

"Why are you pretending to be something that you are not?"

The question seized Erik like an anchor jolting an ocean liner to a halt…his blood went icy…it must have been the accent that gave him away…why had Christine insisted on the silly accent? He hadn't had enough time to practice it…to perfect it…

Meg was looking at him knowingly.

Did she somehow know the truth?

His grip on Meg's hand instantly tightened. Her eyes followed from where their hands were locked to his face, smiling.

"Pardon me?" Erik managed, nearly wincing at the tightness in his voice.

"You are no composer, Monsieur DuLange," Meg said slowly, leaning in as if she spoke a great secret.

Erik felt as if he had been punched.

"I'm not?" He said, perplexed as to why he didn't just end the charade and flee the ballroom.

Meg shook her head. "Oh no, Monsieur," she said seriously. Then, dropping into a dramatic whisper she said, "you, Sir, are a _dancer._"

Erik wondered if it was possible to die of relief.

"Oh," he said softly, forcing a laugh.

"You are!" Meg continued. "The way you danced with Christine…" she leaned in again, "Old Mattie Champlain nearly fanned her wig right off her head!"

Meg pointed inconspicuously at an aged old woman sitting at the edge of the ballroom floor, her eyes fixated on Erik.

He looked away uncomfortably while Meg giggled.

"Speaking of Christine," she suddenly began.

_The cunning wench!_ Erik thought to himself.

Erik was beginning to learn just how skilled the female sex was at manipulating a conversation to their advantage.

"How long have you known her?" Meg chirped.

Erik looked over to where Raoul was still dancing politely with Christine.

"Some time now," Erik replied vaguely.

"And what are your intentions?" Meg asked.

"Pardon me?" Erik said.

"You're asking for an awful lot of pardons this evening," Meg commented. Before he had a chance to reply she spoke again. "Why is it I have never met you before tonight?"

In truth, Meg had been slightly hurt by what Raoul had said that he didn't believe Meg had never met Christine's escort before. It was true! What _hadn't _she been introduced to the gentleman Christine had been seeing?

And now, the mysterious man arrives…with nothing more than an impressive title and devilishly handsome good looks.

There was something terribly odd about the entire situation.

Erik began to struggle out with an answer to her question when he was blissfully interrupted.

By Christine.

Erik immediately dropped Meg's hands and turned to Christine.

"Well _thank you," _Meg said, her voice half joking, half serious. "Drop me like a piece of cinder when she returns."

Christine patted her friend's hand. "Poor Meg!" She said, teasing her dearest friend. "I believe Raoul is around…and very available for a dance."

At this, Meg perked up.

"Then I shall excuse myself," she said. "Monsieur, thank you for the dance," she told Erik, holding out her gloved hand for him to kiss, which he did. "And don't worry," Meg continued. "I'll keep our little secret."

She winked and walked away.

Christine wordlessly led Erik to the large, open doors leading to moon bathed gardens where they could speak without competing with the volume of the full orchestra.

"Sharing secrets with Meg, are you?" Christine teased as they walked between high rosebushes, her lips curving into a smile.

Erik gave a short laugh and nodded, walking beside Christine with his hands behind his back. "Your little friend seems to think I should be a ballerina," he told her.

Christine laughed. "She appreciates a good dancer."

He playfully pulled her into a spin, which ended with her pressed up against his body, her lips mere inches from his.

"I appreciate you," he said in a low tone.

Christine's heart melted.

She stared into his amber eyes, which were scanning hers intently. Slowly, he raised his gloved hand to his mouth, pulling the form-fitting leather gloves that usually covered his hands off with his teeth. He brought his fingertips down to her face and gently brushed a wayward curl from her forehead.

"You can't possibly be real," he murmured, stroking the delicate column of her throat with his fingertips. "For I have done nothing in my life to deserve to be this close to the heavens."

Christine brought her lips to his, relishing in the feeling of his mouth as it once again found hers.

Erik was beginning to memorize her lips…how they moved against his in steady, sometimes timid motions. He was beginning to remember that if he placed his hand in just the right position on her back she would arch towards him, bringing her body in direct alignment with his. He knew that if he swept his tongue across hers briefly, she would inevitably respond with a soft, fluttering moan that seemed to speak directly to the most male part of his anatomy.

Such was the case now, and before either was able to prevent it, they had ducked behind a particularly enormous hedge, mostly obscured by the cape Erik donned.

Christine felt feverish as her hands began to quickly work the intricate buttoning on Erik's shirt. Her mouth cupped his throat, moving downwards with every button successfully undone.

Erik could not stop his head from briefly falling back in uncontrollable bliss.

Lower she went, until the entire shirt and vest hung open, revealing a surprisingly muscular form that was undeniably male.

Just as her hot tongue swept across the top of Erik's pants, he placed his hands around her upper arms, pulling her frame up to his.

His breath was coming sharply; he was looking at her with an intensity she had not yet witnessed from him.

Suddenly, she was overcome with the desire to see his face.

The thought both repulsed and excited her. Perhaps, if she could stare at that face without feeling the need to look away…if she could look at it…and still feel the same powerfully seductive force of him…then maybe…maybe…

"Take off your mask."

It was a demand.

At first, Erik was caught off guard, his eyes automatically searching Christine's for that same, morbid curiosity he had seen in hundred's of spectators eyes.

And just for a moment, he had felt what it was like to be back in that cage….

But eventually, he came to realize that there was nothing sinister in her want…nothing evil about what she was requesting of him.

It was just Christine…who had only moments ago nearly given him her body…

who was still panting with a primal lust.

And so, slowly, almost painfully, Erik removed his mask, allowing the shadowy evening to act as a curtain as the moon illuminated his face.

Christine didn't even blink.

She brought her hands to his face, placing one on each side. Unhurriedly, she allowed both hands to run down the sides of his face, one caressing a perfectly smooth surface while the other encountered twisted bone and gnarled skin.

Then, as her hands reached his chin, she tilted him down towards her, kissing him just as passionately as she had before the mask came off.

So overjoyed was he…so completely serene they both were…that they failed to notice the figure standing several feet from them.

Only when it began to scream did they react.


	22. More Angel Than Devil

_**Thanks for your patience guys! **_

**_One of my reviewers guessed it..._**

**_Enjoy!_**

**_Nico_**

* * *

****

_"MONSTER!"_

Lady Champlain's petrified shriek could be heard even above the orchestra in the grand ballroom.

Christine rested her head against Erik's chest for a moment, closing her eyes in an attempt to pretend that they were far away from the scene about to unfold.

Erik quickly re-donned his mask looking down at Christine with a mixture of fear and anger in his eyes.

"I have to follow her," Christine said helplessly. "Before she works everyone up."

Erik nodded curtly. "Go," he whispered, his fingers quickly buttoning his undone shirt.

She looked up at him for a moment longer, placing a kiss on his chin.

Then, in a flurry of crinoline and silk, she was gone.

Erik watched from behind the shrubbery as Christine crossed the expanse of perfectly manicured greens, looking like an angel in the moonlight.

Soon, news of his horrible face would be spread throughout the Masquerade's guests.

There would be nothing he could do to prevent the obsessive compulsion human beings had with the painfully extraordinary.

He had sworn that he would never again be subject to the haunting stares of fearful masses.

He would never again be held before crowds like an animal in a cage.

Before he realized what was happening, Erik's legs began pumping, carrying him far from the gardens and the throngs of people who would undoubtedly want to pin him down and gawk at his terrible misfortune.

* * *

By the time Christine had caught up with Madame Champlain, she had worked up the crowds of people hovering around to hear her story into a near mob mentality.

"I have seen the devil himself!" She was saying, her frail body laying dramatically across a chaise lounge someone had dragged into the main ballroom. "That face…that hideous face will haunt me for eternity!"

Christine pushed her way through the gathered crowd. As soon as Madame Champlain lay eyes on her, she pointed a thin, crooked finger at her. "There," the old woman croaked. "Satan's harlot!"

Gasps filtered through the crowd as Christine felt herself shrink beneath the stares of nearly three hundred socialites.

"Madame Champlain," she said, her voice shaky. "Surely you do not believe that Monsieur DuLange is the devil!"

Madame Champlain shot her a stony look. "Just as I am sure you are standing before me now, I am certain I have gazed into the eyes of pure evil!" Then, in another terribly dramatic move, Madame Champlain's eyes rolled back in her head, causing her to slump against the chaise once more.

"Say no more, my lady!" Monsieur Firmin pleaded, patting the older woman's hand lightly, a sway clearly visible in his stance.

"But it's not true!" Christine protested. "Monsieur DuLange is more angel than devil!"

Raoul, who had been watching the scene from the back of the crowd, suddenly appeared at Madame Champlain's side. "Are you certain of that, Christine?" He asked.

Christine stared at him.

There was something unusual about Raoul's tone.

"I am certain," Christine said forcefully.

"Then what of his face?" Raoul asked.

Christine bit her lip and looked down.

"He has a deformity," Christine admitted, sending another shock of chatter through the crowd. "But his appearance has no bearing on his character!"

"She has been bewitched by the devil!" Madame Champlain suddenly cried out.

"No!" Christine yelled over the now boisterous crowd. "He is a man…just the same as any one of you!"

Raoul began to walk towards her. "Christine," he said, his voice soft. "Perhaps it would be best for you to retire."

Christine snatched her arm from his hand as he tried to escort her. "I will decide what is best for me," she hissed at him.

Raoul looked at her with a confused, hurt expression on his face. "Christine, be reasonable," he pleaded.

"Reasonable?" She scoffed, speaking loudly enough for the Masquerade quests to hear her. "What do you know of reason," she asked. Then she turned to the rest of the crowd. "What do _any _of you know of reason! You choose to condemn a man for his appearance!"

She walked purposefully over to where Madame Champlain lay. The old woman seemed to collapse into herself as Christine approached. "I would rather spend my time in the company of a person whose skin is marred, rather than with people who carry the same terrible disfigurement on their souls."

Madame Champlain gasped at the insinuation. "She's mad!" The woman declared.

Christine turned on her heel, hurrying out of the ballroom.

"Christine!" Raoul called, hurrying after her.

"Christine!"

* * *

She knew where he would be.

His back was slightly hunched, his fingers moving with incredibly deft skill over the piano he sat in front of.

Christine winced at the somber tune, as it was surely a reflection of his mood.

Only when the small boat she stood in hit the iron gate that separated Erik from her did he turn around.

Christine grasped the gate's bars, looking pointedly at him. "Erik, let me in," she said softly.

"You should not be down here," he told her, turning his back on her.

"Erik, please," she said, keeping her voice warm. "Lift the gates."

He stood suddenly with a roar, flinging a pewter sculpture at the gates. Christine fell back in the boat as it smashed against the iron, causing sparks to flutter down into the icy water.

"Go!" Erik screamed, close to hysteria. _"Go now and leave me!"_

Christine felt tears begin to stream down her face. "Erik," she sobbed, climbing to her feet and grasping the cold iron again. "Please don't push me away!"

He sat again, his head in his hands.

Christine watched, her heart aching for the man in the mask.

"Erik," she addressed him again. "It doesn't matter what they say…I don't care…I don't care about any of them!"

Still he ignored her.

Desperate to get his attention, the next words out of Christine's mouth were ones that had never been spoken to Erik.

"I love you!"

Her voice resonated off the cavernous walls.

Erik lifted his head, almost too stunned to move.

But move he did. As if in a dream, his long legs plunged into the lake, his large hand depressing the lever that caused the heavy gates to move slowly.

He walked towards her, his angel standing unsteadily in his small boat, her face stained with tears.

Without thinking, she too plunged into the lake, her voluminous skirts doing nothing to prevent her from rushing into Erik's arms, burying her head in his chest, sobbing into the velvet.

"I love you," she sobbed. "I love you…"

Erik let his hand come to rest on the back of her head. "My God," he said softly, his voice disbelieving.

"My God…"


	23. A Mother's Love

**_Enjoy!_**

**_Nico_**

* * *

Five year old Erik sat at the kitchen table, switching a small charcoal pencil between his right and left hand, placing the delicate finishing touches on yet another architectural design he had created that would never become a reality.

From behind his small mask, he allowed his eyes to steal brief glances at his mother, who was busying herself over a pot of something that was steaming into her face, causing thick tendrils of her hair to fall into her eyes.

_How pretty she is_, Erik thought.

He was never a physical child. No matter who came through the small home he shared with his mother, he was never touched.

Not even by the woman who had given birth to him.

The previous night, Erik had watched from a small hiding spot beneath the stairs as his mother had entertained a male guest. The man was a young doctor who had been examining Erik for almost his entire life.

Erik hated him.

In front of his mother, the doctor was cordial and friendly…warm even…but behind the closed doors of his sterile examining room, he was harsh and ill-tempered, one time even striking Erik when the child refused to partake in a series of painful blood work that ultimately left his arms so severely bruised he could not lift a pencil for weeks.

Erik had watched from his tiny cocoon as the doctor had touched his mother softly as they sat beside one another on the couch. He watched with unblinking eyes as the doctor first brushed a lock of hair from her forehead, and then kissed the piece of skin he had revealed.

He watched as his mother placed her thin hand on the doctor's knee, the resulting crease in the knee of his perfectly pressed pants the telltale sign of her urgency.

As the doctor's mouth came crashing down on his mother's Erik had whimpered and run away.

Up until that point, he had been certain that his mother touched no one.

It turned out that she saved that treatment for her child, and her child alone.

But intelligent as he was, a five-year-old's affections were temperamental at best, and as Erik watched his mother slave over the boiling pot, he was overwhelmed with the need to embrace her, to bury his face in her skirts and inhale the scent of motherhood.

He ran to her, wrapping his thin arms around her legs before she had a chance to block him.

For a split second, Erik was mollified, his face spreading into a smile as his heart felt instantly soothed by human contact.

The comfort only lasted for that instant.

His mother suddenly shrieked, kicking at what might as well have been a dog begging at her feet.

And like a dog, Erik howled as his mother's heeled boot came crashing down against his ribcage.

"What were you _thinking_?" She screamed at him.

Blinking and disoriented, Erik's mouth quivered. "I was just hugging you, Mama," he stuttered. Then, feeling as if he needed more justification, added in a small voice, "I love you."

His mother placed a hand to her mouth, tears springing to her eyes.

"Do not love anyone, Erik," she whispered.

"Why not?" He had whimpered back.

"Because," his mother had said, her face suddenly stonily blank. "No one will ever love you back."

* * *

"I love you…I love you…" 

Christine repeated the phrase over and over, something telling her that Erik would not believe it, no matter how many times she said it.

She repeated it as he led her to shore, and then back towards the silken room that contained Erik's impressive pewter swan bed.

She repeated it as she felt Erik gently turn her around, his fingers quickly undoing the back of her intricately laced ball gown.

She repeated it as she turned back to face him, blushing under the heat of his gaze as she stood before him in nothing but her thin undergarments, corset and stockings.

Erik stared at her for several moments longer than he knew was appropriate.

Yet she made no attempt to shield herself from him.

With a sigh of purely male frustration, Erik grasped a silk robe from the edge of his bed, draping it around her bare shoulders and then turning his back on her once more.

Christine's brows knitted together as she pulled the robe self-consciously around herself.

"Have you nothing to say to me?" She asked after several minutes of silence.

"What would you have me say," Erik asked, his voice so quiet she could barely hear him.

Christine scoffed. "Something…anything…I would take curses of hate over this insufferable silence!"

Erik turned, his hair askew, his shirt and pants wet from the lake.

He truly looked like something out of hell.

"What is it you need to hear, Christine?" He said lowly. "Must I regale you with stories of my tormented past…stories of a mother whose only gift to her son was a mask to cover the face that made her vomit?"

His voice had grown louder.

He began to walk towards Christine, who instinctively backed up.

"Shall I tell you of the days I spent in a traveling cage with nothing more than straw to sleep upon? Would you like to hear of how the bars of that cage were just big enough for the children to thrust a stick in my sides?"

He was yelling now.

"Erik," Christine said, her backside pressed up against the wall. "Please, stop…"

"Or perhaps you would like to hear of my days spent in this darkness," he continued, ignoring her pleas. "Where the punishment for this," he ripped off his mask, thrusting his face inches from her own, "is endless solitude?"

He slammed his hands on either side of her on the last syllable, causing her to yelp.

"Stop!" She cried. "Please, Erik! Stop this!"

Erik watched as the woman who had moments ago confessed her love for him began to sob, her eyes wide with fright.

And as his rage subsided, he realized she was trembling because of him.

Immediately, and perhaps a bit too roughly, he pulled her into his arms, his lips landing at crook of her neck where, out of the torrent of emotions flooding through him, he bit gently.

Christine gasped, the feeling of his teeth lightly nipping at her neck eliciting sensations through her body she had never experienced before.

"God help me," Erik rasped as Christine placed her arms around his neck, pressing her body to his unconsciously.

"God helps those who help themselves, Sir."

The male voice caused Christine to scream in fright.

Erik turned.

There, standing in water up to his knees was Raoul.

"Although," the Vicomte continued, "I see that you've already done just that."


	24. A Surprising Submission

_Okay, I know…damn Raoul. But I promise this is not going to go in the direction you think it is. Raoul is the bad guy in almost every one of my stories, and I'm really trying to portray him as a generally nice human who just happens to find himself in some testing situations. Hopefully, you all see this story as a more realistic version of POTO. _

_Erik's Angel…one of my more eloquent reviewers, Renee, would like for you to update "through emerald eyes." Apparently, she's dying to read more. Check my review section on this story to read her pleas. _

_And one more thing…my fiancé and I watched "Timeline" last night. If there are any Gerry Butler fans out there, he is particularly yummy in this movie. (Frankly, the movie was sort of lame-o, but good enough to hold my attention for its duration.)_

_**Oh, and this is NOT NOT NOT the last chapter.** _

_Whew. Ok. Think I covered everything…_

_  
Enjoy!_

_-Nico_

* * *

"Raoul!" Christine exclaimed, immediately identifying her childhood friend. "What are you doing here?"

"Perhaps I should ask you the same question, Christine," Raoul replied coldly.

"If you did, I would inform you that it is none of your business," Christine told him.

"Who are you?"

Raoul's question was aimed at Erik, who had been standing still, silently cursing himself for not lowering the gate after he had let in Christine.

Now, the blond man was treading through the murky lake, slowly moving closer to Erik, his eyes narrowed as if trying to figure out a riddle.

"His name is Erik," Christine said suddenly.

Erik shot her an irritated glance.

"He is a brilliant composer," she continued. "He possesses talents I never dreamed possible. And if it wasn't for him, I would never have opened my mouth to sing in the first place."

Raoul turned his attention to Christine. "Who is he to _you_, Christine?"

Erik looked down at the shorter woman at his side.

She gazed back up at him, biting her lower lip as was her custom when nervous or threatened.

Christine inhaled deeply.

"He is my song," she said softly. "He is my reason."

Her voice choked on a sob.

"And no matter how he feels about me, I will love him until the day I die," she finished, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand and turning her attention back to Raoul…

whose face was crestfallen and very obviously hurt.

"I could have given you everything," he said softly.

Christine shook her head. "Not the one thing I truly want," she replied, lacing her fingers through Erik's cold hand, which hung limply at his side.

Erik rarely dreamed. But as he stood, watching this scene unfold before him, he silently prayed that it was real.

There was a time when he was certain he would have killed for her…

A time where he would not have let anything come between himself and his angel.

But suddenly, he realized that he would not have to resort to drastic measures to keep her nearby.

She would do so on her own volition.

Christine smiled as she felt his fingers hesitantly wrap around hers.

And then, Raoul knew he was engaging in a battle he was certain he would ultimately lose.

He looked Erik in the eye. "Take care of her," he said.

Then, he turned, wading back to the small boat that had carried him into the lair.

For several moments, both Erik and Christine stood on the shore, watching as one more conflict abandoned their lives.

"He would have made you happy," Erik suddenly said softly.

Christine nodded. "There is no question of that," she agreed.

"He would have afforded you a lifestyle I have never experienced, let alone possess," Erik continued.

"Yes, he would have," Christine said.

Suddenly, Erik grasped her upper arms, pulling her to face him. "Then _why_," he demanded. "Why give all that up?"

Tears once again sprang to her eyes. "Because...I love you!" She yelled.

Erik released her, running his fingers through his hair. "It is impossible to love me," he said quietly.

"That isn't true," Christine protested. "I'm finding it easier with every breath I take."

He could only hold back his true emotions for so long.

And finally, Erik's soul reached its breaking point.

He fell at her knees, embracing her legs just as he had his mother's all those years ago.

He wept, inhaling the cool, clean scent of the only person in the world to love him.

"Christine," he whimpered, grasping for her shoulders as she knelt down to his level. "Oh…Christine…I love you…I have always loved you…"

Christine's eyes slid closed as she wrapped her arms around the man kneeling before her.

"Then promise me something," she whispered into his ear.

"Anything," he agreed, his mouth already seeking out hers.

Christine kissed him, moaning slightly as familiar liquid fire spread through her limbs.

She placed her forehead against his. "Promise you will never doubt my love for you," she demanded. "Promise that I will never be without you…promise that this is forever."

Erik looked into her eyes, his entire being shaking.

"I promise," he said helplessly. "I promise…"

And there, deep within the darkness that had all but consumed a broken man, two shattered souls finally began to heal.


	25. Belief and the Union of Souls

_**Okay, So I'm doing something a little funky here. This is the last chapter in the story, but there will be another post. How is this possible, you ask? Well, I want to take my time and write a really steamy, sexy love scene for Erik and Christine. I will post that as sort of an epilogue. Expect it sometime next week, probably earlier. **_

_**But for now, enjoy…**_

_**-Nico**_

* * *

****

FIVE YEARS LATER

The dark music that had been pounding underneath Christine's feet for the past hour or so suddenly came to a halt, followed by a sharp bellow from Erik and the sound of a glass shattering.

Christine closed her eyes tightly.

Dominick! 

Just as the child's name passed through her thoughts, the cellar door flew open, a very dirty and frightened little boy immediately clinging to her skirts.

"I'm sorry Mama!" The four year old exclaimed, his voice muffled by the folds of her clothing. "I was just _looking_ at Papa's mirror!"

Erik suddenly appeared at the cellar door, his unmasked face carrying a look of exasperation.

"What happened?" Christine asked him.

"_Somehow_," Erik said, looking directly at Dominick who promptly buried his face in his mother's skirts again, "one of the mirrors downstairs shattered."

"Oh Dominick," Christine said, holding her young son's face in her hands. "Why must you constantly meddle in your father's affairs?"

Her voice was warm; she expected nothing less of her precocious son.

"I'm not _mettling_, Mama," Dominick informed her. "I'm helping!"

Erik scoffed. "Helping," he repeated sarcastically.

Dominick turned his smooth face to his father's, his lower lip pouting out just slightly. "Are you angry with me, Papa?"

Erik forced his face to remain stonily parental.

"Oh, very," he said, winking at Christine over Dominick's head. "I fear your punishment shall be terrible."

Dominick's eyes went wide. "What will you do to me?" He asked, sounding perfectly horrified.

Erik placed his hand upon his chin, as if deep in thought. Slowly, he walked towards his only child.

Dominick backed up a bit.

"Come here, Dominick," Erik said, his voice sounding terse.

Dominick hung his head, walking over to his father, who stooped down.

Erik placed a finger under the boy's chin, turning his saddened face up to his.

"Are you ready for your punishment?" He asked the child.

Dominick nodded miserably.

Then, without warning, Erik scooped the child into his arms, quickly moving Dominick's shirt up and blowing a raspberry against his round tummy.

Dominick shattered into a million laughing pieces, begging his father for mercy.

"Papa!" He shrieked between laughs, "Papa! Stop!"

"Your punishment has just begun!" Erik roared, pulling off one of Dominick's shoes and tickling the tiny toes furiously.

Dominick's laughter intensified until finally Erik flopped him down onto a sofa, where the child lay sweating, laughing, and completely out of breath.

"Now," Erik said, turning suddenly to Christine. "It's time for _your_ punishment," he told her, moving slowly towards her like a lion stalking its prey.

"My punishment?" Christine squeaked, backing up a bit. "What on earth did _I _do?"

"Ah…but you are almost entirely to blame for the smashed mirror," Erik told her. "For wasn't it you that sent Dominick down to the cellar in the first place?"

Christine blushed. Damn Erik and his incredible hearing abilities! He had no doubt heard a frustrated Christine telling Dominick to go "bother his father" after he had knocked over an entire package of flour in the kitchen while his mother was baking.

"I just didn't want him to get burned by the oven," Christine said quickly, trying to dodge the blame.

"The oven that was never turned on?" Erik countered.

Damn! 

Erik took Christine's moment of defeat as the perfect opportunity to strike, capturing his shrieking wife and tickling her ribs pitilessly.

As he tickled her to the floor, Erik felt a rejuvenated Dominick jump on his back, giving his father a dose of his own medicine.

Erik easily removed the boy's tiny fingers from his waist and flung him gently down next to his mother.

"An ambush?" Erik roared dramatically. "Well, if it's war you want, it's war the two of you shall have!"

Christine and Dominick could have died from laughing as one of Erik's hands tickled each of them.

* * *

Erik and Christine stood in the doorway of their sleeping son's bedroom contained within their simple house in the Paris countryside.

"He is much more manageable like this," Erik commented.

Christine laughed quietly as she regarded her son, who had fallen asleep mid-play in one of his many chests of toys.

She watched as Erik slowly moved towards the sleeping child, lifting him gently and placing him in his bed.

She watched as Erik's hand smoothed over the boy's dark hair in silent adoration.

She leaned her head on the doorframe, smiling at Erik as he walked back over to her.

"He's unlike anyone I've ever met…so stubborn…such a trouble maker!" Erik commented.

"He's _exactly_ like someone I've met," Christine said, looking Erik pointedly in the eyes.

Erik smirked. "Don't talk about yourself like that, darling."

Christine shoved him playfully.

As they walked back to their bedroom, Christine stopped just before the doorway.

She looked up at him. "Perhaps the new baby won't be such a handful."

Erik looked down at her, his eyes scanning hers slowly.

"Another?" Erik asked, his voice tight.

Tears sprang to Christine's eyes as she nodded.

Erik immediately embraced her, his arms nearly crushing her out of happiness. "Lord help us all if it's a girl," he said wondrously. "If she is half as beautiful as you, there will be nothing I would deny her."

"I love you," Christine said.

And Erik believed her.


End file.
